Bump in the Night
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Once Bitten, Twice Shy, #1. *Felicity Smoak bites off more than she can chew when she welcomes the Vigilante into her life. But, then again, Oliver should have read the fine print before inviting Felicity into his.* Yet another way Oliver and Felicity could have met, this time involving an unnecessary rescue, dubious styrofoam cups, and a vigilante named Ralph. Complete.
1. Only Come Out at Night

**Part: 1 - Only Come Out at Night  
Word Count: 8315**

 **Notes:** I DON'T KNOW. That's the free answer to your first question. (That question, of course, being some variant of "WTF, Masque?" Provided, of course, you haven't asked it already after reading that summary.)

I know I said Drug in Me is You or Monsters in the Mirror after Technical Assistance finished up, but, uh, fate had other plans. But, in my defense, I did use vampires. Or one vampire. ;) It's told in three parts, so expect another update next Thursday.

Before anyone asks me, no alcohol or recreational drug use was involved in the conception of this fic. You'll understand why I feel the need to say this soon enough. Honestly, I'm not sure if that declaration makes this better or worse. I know I've said it a lot, but this takes the cake as the strangest thing I've ever written, and I'm pretty sure it will remain the reigning champ for years to come.

I already warned geniewithwifi that I was going to blame her for this. She tagged me on a Tumblr post, and I have a weakness for crazy AU ideas. If it's insane... *points to geniewithwifi* it's her fault. If you think it's good, please go send her a thank-you. I've played with this idea a few times, but I never would have written it if not for her.

I guess I've rambled on enough, so, without further ado, a fic of insane proportions. ;)

 **Note of mild importance:** I'm going to be without Internet until Monday at the very earliest, so if I'm not answering reviews, that's why. I have no idea when I'll have Internet at the house, so I'm confined to school Internet until Monday.

* * *

Though Felicity Smoak professes to be a cheery person, it's come to her attention that she hates a lot of things that maybe cheery people wouldn't. She hates double-standards, kangaroos, mysteries, VIKI (the evil computer that gives her nightmares), and the fact that _Black Blood Brothers_ didn't get a second season. She hates that her last boyfriend used her for blood and sex and computer support, then left her crying on the floor with an overwhelming desire to bite people. She hates that she has to get blood from her best friend at the coroner's office to stay alive. She hates that becoming a vampire doesn't grant her super strength, super speed, or _any_ of the supers, really. She hates that she's an undead creature of the night and that, all things considered, she still lives a boring, average, non-spectacular life.

But, mostly, in this moment, Felicity Smoak hates nothing more than the book she's trying to read while waiting for her shift to end.

Honestly, she doesn't know why she does this to herself anymore. She started reading vampire novels as a sort of situational irony, some way to make fun of her plight since she can't exactly change it. Now, however, as the ideas get more and more ridiculous—first sparkling vampires and now vampire online dating sites, _honestly_ —she can't help but think that she's just torturing herself. Her gran's words come back to her: _Sometimes, by making light of things, you only make them heavier_. Right now, Felicity's oh-by-the-way-I'm-a-vampire situation feels like a lead weight heavy enough to make her drown. Then she wonders if that could actually kill her.

With a sigh, Felicity looks up at the clock on her computer screen, praying for the clock to read four a.m. Instead, it's three-fifty-eight, meaning she has two minutes left of this misery. (Apparently immortality only makes her more impatient. And dramatic, she notes idly.) While she's grateful that she can work in the field she loves at night to avoid that pesky my-skin-melts-off-in-the-sun thing, Tech Village isn't exactly worthy of her MIT education. Most of the time, she spends her shift taking viruses off of porn-riddled computers, and _very occasionally_ , she might even get to defrag a hard drive. It's miserable, but at least she's paid well for her services.

Even if she _does_ have to wear the stupid uniform.

Finally the clock ticks four, and she wastes no time clocking out, sprinting to the employee locker room to change into her street clothes: jeans and a pink t-shirt with a picture of a cartoon duck with fangs named "Duckferatu." (Barry thought it was a great Hanukkah gift. Felicity wasn't as thrilled, but it's growing on her.) Then she gathers everything up in her purse and flashes the graveyard shift guy—Ray, she thinks his name is—a smile on her way out. He'd be cute under different circumstances—if, you know, she wasn't eternally undead and more likely to kill him than to kiss him.

That thought makes her shake her head wildly as she walks out the door. No matter how hard she tries, she can't make light of the fact that people could die if she isn't careful, if she doesn't control her impulses. Felicity may not have super strength or super speed, but when she's hungry, impossible things happen that give even _her_ nightmares. She's not just violent in that state—she's _deadly_. That's why she drinks every day (blood, not alcohol, though she does enjoy a nice red from time to time), makes sure to keep away from her co-workers, even keeps Barry at arm's length: when she slips, the results are disastrous.

It's happened once. _Only_ once. And Felicity would happily rip her own heart out before she'd let it happen again.

The thought makes her shiver in the night, and then a sensation crawls up her spine. While she doesn't have any superpowers of note, her senses of hearing, sight and smell seem to be more acute than before she went all Carmilla. (Well, sort of Carmilla—Felicity is blonde and she doesn't exactly scream Victorian porn.) It's so strong that she can hear the quiet footsteps on the rooftop thirty stories above her, as well as the stomping of the guy who smells quite tasty and has been following her for the last block. He also smells of vodka, which makes her wonder about his intent.

She can hear him gaining on her, but she tries to keep walking at a normal pace. Instead of being worried, she thinks the bastard might have the world's worst luck by going after the only vampire in Starling City. Unfortunately for him, though, she hasn't had any blood today and she doesn't count it as slipping when her victim is a would-be rapist.

After intentionally turning down a dead-end alley and he follows, she walks to the wall before turning around and facing him. His figure is shadowed by the two taller buildings, but he keeps walking toward her slowly, enough to build the anticipation in her stomach and make her mouth water. Her fangs slowly start to descend, slipping down to press against her bottom lip and slip out over the top of it. For the first time in her life, she finds herself looking _forward_ to the bite.

Suddenly everything goes sideways. The footsteps she noticed before on the rooftop come to an end, followed shortly by a _thwip_ and the sound of something whizzing through the air. It hits with a _crack_ , and then a zipping sound follows. Felicity looks up with a frown, just in time to watch the man land between her and the attacker (or prey, depending upon how she looks at it). He immediately draws back the bow in his hand, and only then does she recognize the green hood hanging over his head.

She's heard of the Vigilante, of course; he's been terrorizing the streets for the last few months, taking on the worst criminals in the city and not bothering to discriminate between the rich and the poor. Anyone attacking the Glades is up for grabs, and he doesn't hesitate to kill. In his full glory in front of her, bow drawn at the guy, he's a pretty impressive sight. Well, he's definitely more impressive than her, anyway—and _she's_ the immortal, supernatural creature of the night.

As a side note, she acknowledges that he smells _freaking amazing_ , but that's neither here nor there.

"Leave. _Now_." The Vigilante is succinct and direct in his command, his voice unnatural under a robotic modulator that he clearly doesn't know how to use all that well; his voice is coming out somewhat garbled. Not so garbled, however, that the would-be attacker/victim doesn't get the message and do just as the scary guy with the bow asks, running out of the alley like a bat out of Hell.

Felicity can't help but study him for a long moment, curious about the anomaly in front of her. Sure, a lot of odd things happen in Starling City, but nothing as fascinating as a guy in a Halloween costume putting arrows in bad guys. If she were human, she'd probably be afraid of him, but, as it is, she could have him paralyzed with her venom in twelve seconds and drained dry in two minutes. Provided he put up a fight, anyway—less if he didn't. It kind of removes his scary factor when the big, bad Vigilante is still a human, putting him firmly below her on the food chain.

"Are you all right?" he asks her quietly, causing Felicity to jump. It takes her a moment to wonder why he asked, but then she notices that the Vigilante is staring at her hands. Sure enough, they're shaking, and she groans. Withdrawals are a bitch on an empty stomach.

Because Barry is a medical genius who should be doing research instead of cutting open dead people, he's been studying her biology out of scientific curiosity. Medicine isn't Felicity's area of expertise, but according to him, various chemicals affect her ability to go into what she thinks of as a "feeding frenzy." The only one he's sure about is epinephrine—adrenaline—and it's apparently toxic to her vampiric biology in above-norma levels, causing her body to try and rid itself of it. They still can't figure out if the paradoxical result is a defect in her personally, or if it's simply a complication that arises when a human becomes another species entirely.

"Peachy," Felicity answers dryly, adjusting her bag over her shoulder. He takes a step toward her, and she takes a step back, trying to prevent him from seeing her fangs in the dark. While her night vision might be superb, she doubts his compares. "I should probably get home before any more trouble follows me." She holds up an index finger. "Oh, and thank you for the rescue, um… whatever your name is." In fact, it kind of bothers her that she doesn't have some sort of name to call him. She'll have to make one up. (Robin is her first choice, but that seems too easy.)

She moves toward the mouth of the alleyway as the first beads of sweat run down the back of her neck, and she picks up her speed. Just as she pulls even with him, everything in her world tilts and she stumbles to the side. He reaches for her, but she holds a hand out to stop him, even as her knees hit pavement. Felicity puts her other hand out in front of her to stop her fall, just in time for her least favorite symptom to kick in.

When she wretches, it isn't pretty—not that puking one's guts up is ever pretty. Fortunately for her, she hasn't had anything to eat or drink today, so at least it's dry and fruitless heaving, not the nasty, projectile vomiting heaving. She can feel the Vigilante crouch beside her, which is embarrassing enough, but he doesn't touch her, either taking the silent command to heart or subconsciously sensing that she's a lot meaner than he is.

"It's just shock," the still-nameless Vigilante states as she finishes retching. (Jacob, maybe? No, she decides, he doesn't look like a Jacob.) The sweat on her neck makes Felicity shiver in the cold, and she realizes that chills, dizziness, and vomiting can all be severe cases of shock. She _wishes_ it were just shock—that wouldn't suck nearly as hard as this. "Just take it slow, try to concentrate on something else." There's a brief pause before he asks, "What's your name?"

The cramps start to hit her just as he asks. She leans against the wall, closing her eyes and clutching her stomach as she manages to say, "Felicity. Smoak." Most people would think twice about answering that question, but she doesn't mind it—not after he's saved her life and not when she's capable of draining him dry. "Not as in 'on the water,' but with an O-A-K at the end. Like the tree. It's a common spelling mistake."

An odd sound leaves the modulator that sounds almost like a laugh, but when she opens one eye to check, his expression is just as impassive as ever. (She rules out Hunter on her list of names—that would be too easy.) With the mask over his eyes and the hood shadowing his face, she can just tell that his eyes are blue and that he hasn't shaved in quite some time, judging by the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks. (That causes her to rule out Connor—too silver-spoon for him.) She has no doubt that, with those cheekbones, he's probably pretty damn handsome under all the getup, and it's a shame he's in a profession where he has to hide his face.

Oblivious to her ogling, he notes, "This isn't the best part of town to walk alone at night." It isn't chastising, like her mother would have said it, but instead a statement of fact, no judgment rendered. She kind of appreciates that, even though he probably _shouldn't_ be judging people when he wears green leather and carries a bow. "What are you doing out here, Felicity?"

"I work the graveyard shift at Tech Village," she explains sourly, her mouth twisting down into a frown. "Seven to four. Which, by the way, is not an effective use of my computer programming skills." She tries to raise herself up, but her head swims again. "I live just a few blocks away, so I usually walk. You'd be surprised how much money I save on gas."

The Vigilante rolls back on his heels slightly in his crouched position, and Felicity hopes he hasn't noticed that she's totally staring. Not in the creepy, I-wanna-have-your-babies way, but in the general, the-dude-in-front-of-me-is-dressed-like-Robin-Hood way. She's not quite sure he'd notice the distinction, though. Instead, what comes out of his mouth throws her for a loop: "I'd like to walk you home." She studies him for a moment to make sure delusions aren't part of her withdrawals, but his eyes are focused on the pavement. Not a delusion, then. After a pause, he adds, "You've been through a lot tonight, and I want to make sure it doesn't happen again. I could stay with you for just a block or two, if you'd like."

It takes her a moment to realize what he's saying. He understands that she probably doesn't want him to know where she lives, but he's also concerned about her well-being. (That makes her lean toward Tristan, but he doesn't exactly _seem_ noble enough for that.) "And they say chivalry is dead," Felicity blurts, cringing at her words. She's glad she said it, though, because this time, she sees the corner of his mouth lift ever so slightly in amusement. He _was_ laughing at her earlier.

His question does cause a dilemma, though, since her symptoms are only going to get worse as she tries to get home. It's fine if she's on her own, but, there's a reason she calls them "withdrawals," even though they probably aren't: the symptoms are almost identical. She opens her mouth to decline, but somehow it manages to come out as, "If you don't have anything more important to do, sure. After all, misery loves company."

Taking that as an invitation, the Vigilante rises to his feet in a fluid motion, extending a hand to help her up. Against her better judgment, Felicity takes it, knowing she'll probably need some help. Just as she rises to her feet, another dizzy spell washes over and she pitches forward. The hooded vigilante pulls her against him to steady her, and somehow her hands end up on his shoulders. One of his ends up circling her waist, the other pushing against her upper arm so he can study her expression. That's probably hindered, though, because she's too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

While his scent isn't something she needs at close proximity right now, it does give her access to the voice modulator on the collar of his jacket. When she reaches up to take it without thinking, his gloved hand snatches her wrist out of the air. He leans his head down to her ear to ask, "Just what do you think you're doing?" She'd call it a whisper because of the low tone, but there's an edge to it, almost like a milder version of the growl he used on the would-be rapist earlier. (That makes her want to go with Adrian, but that's not quite right, either.)

It takes Felicity a moment before she realizes there was a question in there. Her voice comes out a little breathless when she answers, "I was going to reset your voice modulator settings—you're coming out like you have a mouth full of gravel. Unless you _do_ have a mouth full of gravel, in which case it's working perfectly." She pulls her hands away from his jacket, holding them up in a placating gesture. "But point taken: no touching. That works just as well for me, anyway." He blinks twice as he releases her, and she huffs at the direction of his thoughts. "Sorry to disappoint you, Ralph, but I don't care who you are under the hood." She starts to chastise him some more, but the name slip makes her jaw snap shut. And here she'd thought karma had decided to torment someone else for a while.

A smile quirks the corner of his mouth, pure amusement destroying his whole grr-I-will-arrow-you vibe. "Ralph?" he repeats, curiosity turning the tone of his voice at the end.

"Yes, Ralph," Felicity snaps back, fighting of yet more embarrassment. "I don't like that you can call me by name but I don't know yours. So I decided to give you one, since I know you can't tell me." She huffs. "Which you were never supposed to know about because it was supposed to stay in my head. I should have known that was futile—my brain is directly connected to my mouth."

"And you chose _Ralph?_ " he questions again.

She ignores him, starting forward even as her vision starts to blur around the edges. Her hands shake, but she clenches her fists to hide it. Another wave of nausea passes over her, but she tries to hold it down. It's been too long to play her symptoms off as shock, so she only has the option to fight it.

Despite how fast she moves, he's with her in a few strides. The traffic at four a.m. is nonexistent, but the Vigilante sticks to the shadows, out of sight. He doesn't say anything this time, only quietly keeping pace with her. The silence isn't weighted, but it's still agony; there's nothing like a hollow ache in her stomach to remind Felicity that she hasn't had any blood today, to remind her how fantastic Ralph smells. While her ex only had to drink when he was bleeding from an open wound, Cooper had a few centuries' worth of experience on her. Not to mention, he was methodical, careful, always in control.

Basically, the exact opposite of Felicity herself.

At least conversation keeps her mind away from that. "Is green your favorite color?" she blurts suddenly When the Vigilante looks at her, she shrugs self-consciously. "There has to be a reason why you picked it for your whole ensemble. Not that you don't make it look good." He lifts an eyebrow over the top of his mask, and only then does Felicity realize what she's said. "Not that I've been looking." After rethinking it, she corrects, "Well, I _have_ been looking, but not in the ogling sort of way that's creepy and disrespectful. More in the just-looking sort of way." She waves a hand. "My original point being that green isn't a good color for urban camouflage. According to Barry, black is a better color for that—especially at night. Green camouflage is typically used for jungles."

"I chose it for personal reasons," Ralph answers after a long moment. Then he throws her a look that she interprets as apologetic. "But those are my own." Slowly she understands that it's a polite suggestion to back off, to leave it alone because he won't answer any more questions on the subject.

Felicity stops in front of the familiar driveway. "I understand secrets," she answers with understanding. Silently, she adds, _Especially those that can destroy your entire world_. Then the blonde points to the red door on the white house to her left. "This is me," she adds quietly, somewhat hesitant to let him go. Part of her knows that, when she does, it will be the end of it. The story of Ralph the Vigilante will be one she tells Barry's kids someday, one of those tales that means nothing and is told solely for entertainment value.

With that in mind, she sinks her sharp teeth into her lip as she twirls the key in her hand. "Thanks for saving me from that guy." Sure, Felicity might not have needed his help, but she'd like to think she isn't rude. "And for walking me home." Finally, she gets to the statement she's been trying to make all night: "I wasn't kidding about fixing that modulator, though. Drop it off sometime, and I'll take care of it for you. I don't like to feel like owe you something." More importantly, she doesn't like it that _he_ might feel like she owes him something.

It may be the withdrawals screwing with her head (or wishful thinking), but she thinks that he might be a little reluctant to leave, too. "You don't owe me anything," he answers, so low the voice modulator doesn't pick it up. His voice is too quiet to distinguish, anyway, even for her ears. "I'll leave it for you in a few days," he adds finally, as though to appease her instead of any perceived debt she might owe him. Felicity thinks he's a smart man; he already knows not to argue with her. "Goodnight, Felicity." He turns to leave with some finality, then swivels back to face her. "Just try to be more careful next time."

Crossing her arms, Felicity answers truthfully, "Don't worry—I'm meaner than I look."

* * *

When she clocks out for lunch at ten, Felicity can already smell the food wafting down the hall, along with Barry's unique scent. It's a routine they've developed over the past few years, ever since the whole Cooper Debacle of 2009. They _always_ have one meal together at least three times a week, though it's usually an everyday occurrence. While she doesn't socialize because of the whole I'm-a-vampire-I-might-eat-you thing, Barry is somewhat more pathetic than even she is: his one friend in Starling City is a vampire and people usually avoid him because he works around death as the day shift coroner.

Honestly, Felicity doesn't get why _he's_ a pariah. He has a respectable job, he's smart, he's funny, and he's even easy on the eyes. Hell, if she weren't undead and venom-filled, she might even try to make their relationship more than platonic. But, as it stands, she's a vampire and he's human—and it would never work. Despite what the shelves of vampire novels might lead unsuspecting humans to believe, vampires and humans don't mix.

Felicity knows because she's been bitten before, pun somewhat intended.

He leans in the doorway of the tech closet they dare to call an office, flashing her a wide smile. "Hey," he greets her. Then he holds up a small, plastic lunch cooler, one that she already knows is filled with pints of blood. "I brought you something to eat." Then he flashes a smile as he drops the drink tray and the bag of Big Belly Burger on her desk. "And some food, too."

"Barry Allen, you are a saint and I don't deserve you," she declares. Barry always seems to laugh when she says it, but Felicity finds it to be the truth. If anything, she's jeopardizing his life by clinging to his friendship. Every once in a while, she has the decency to feel guilty about it, but no man is an island and all that. Especially not one very young, very lonely vampire who has the rest of eternity to look forward to spending with absolutely _no one_.

Those are the kinds of thoughts that the blonde vampire stores away for late in the morning when she's left alone with her post-withdrawal insomnia. In the interim, Felicity made a promise to herself to enjoy the time she has with her best friend while she has him. While she has eternity to mope, Barry Allen isn't so unfortunate. The least she can do is inject a little sunshine into his life.

Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, Felicity takes her drink cup from the tray—just ice, the way she always has him order it. After making sure no one else is milling about, she pulls a blood bag from the cooler and dumps it into the cup. Once she seals the plastic lid back on it, she can't help but press down the "Other" bubble on the lid with a hint of humor. "Did I mention that I really like that these straws are red?" she asks him idly. "It's like they _know_ a vampire is using it drink blood on ice. Maybe I should send them a thank-you note."

Barry leans forward on his elbows. "You're awfully… _sullen_ today," he notes with a frown as he pulls their food out of the bag. "It's not like you to be all gloom and doom." Because he's been her best friend for the better part of five years, he knows better than to ask her directly about her troubles, he flashes a smile and teases her instead. "Did you wake up on the wrong side of the coffin this evening?"

In an attempt to act unimpressed, she huffs, but it's probably softened by the smile on her face. "If you ever want to leave the wonderful world of Autopsy, you could always put together a stand-up act," Felicity replies dryly as he takes a bite of his burger. "And that would imply I sleep in a coffin—or that I actually slept last night, for that matter."

His face immediately falls, and Felicity isn't sure she could feel worse if she'd intentionally kicked a puppy. (Not that she _would_ intentionally kick a puppy—she's a vampire, but she's not _heartless_.) "You had withdrawals again," he realizes as she nibbles at a fry, and there's no question in his voice.

Like her, he's probably reliving the last time she slipped. While it was awful for all involved, Felicity discovered a universal truth that day: you can only know who your true friends are after you show up at their door at three in the morning, crying, bruised, and covered in someone else's blood. As it turns out, Barry Allen is the best friend she ever could have hoped for. Instead of shutting the door and calling the police (like a sane, reasonable person would have done), he _hugged_ her—even though he knew she had just killed someone.

Finally, he decides that asking a question is necessary: "What happened?"

Because her mouth is full of food, she waves a hand to assure him that nothing happened, and he visibly relaxes in his seat. "Some drunk guy tried to follow me last night on the way home from work," she explains, even though it comes out kind of garbled with the burger in her mouth. She takes a drink before continuing, "I was going to go ahead and feed since he was a miserable human being who tried to attack me, but the Vigilante showed up and… blood-blocked me." She frowns. "Is that a word?"

The coroner's eyes bulge in surprise as he chokes on his food for a moment. After taking a drink, he asks in an incredulous tone, "You met the _Vigilante?_ " Something changes in his expression, and he's more adamant now. "And you didn't call me about that last night?"

She rolls her eyes at him. This… _obsession_ he has with the Vigilante is kind of unhealthy, but he's nice enough to supply her with free blood because she's a vampire. The least she can do is show a little understanding for _his_ weirdness. "I figured you were probably sleeping," she answers truthfully, "and _one_ of us should get a little sleep every now and then." She pops another fry in her mouth. "You'll be happy to know that Ralph is a decent guy." She waves a hand haphazardly. "I mean, he's killed a few people, but I refuse to define anyone by their bad deeds alone." After all, there's blood on her hands, too—she doesn't have the right to judge. "He scared off my attacker, and when I started going through withdrawals, he thought it was shock." She shrugs. "Then he walked me home."

Barry's mouth opens and closes a few times, as though he's trying to decide which question to ask first. Finally, he goes with, "His name is _Ralph?_ " Anyone else might take offense that he didn't ask about her safety first, but if it had been serious, they both know she would have speed-dialed him on her cell phone.

"Of course not," she answers. If she were the kind of person who said _duh_ , this would be the perfect opportunity. " _No one_ is named Ralph. I gave him a name so I wouldn't have to think of him as an urban legend anymore." She tilts her head to the side. "I didn't _mean_ to name him Ralph—it just sort of slipped out. If I had it to do all over again, I'd pick something different. He's too potentially handsome to be a Ralph."

The coroner across from her leans forward in his seat, ignoring his burger. "You got a good look at him?" he asks, clearly interested in the answer.

Felicity shakes her head. "Not enough to help you," she admits. "He's caucasian and tall, with a dark beard. He has a heavier build than you do, but so does everyone." Barry flashes her a withering glance, but with a smile, so it doesn't quite do what it's intended to do.

They continue to chat for a while, enjoying their food and each other's company. As she does, the ache hits Felicity yet again: she's going to miss him after he's gone. He doesn't mean to leave her any time soon, but that's the curse of her nature. Felicity might be frozen in time, but the world is not. It might be two days from now or eighty years, but eventually, Barry Allen is going to become a part of her past. And, while eighty years sounds like a lot when she's twenty-two, it isn't as long as she might hope—not in the face of eternity.

She manages to keep that thought bottled up throughout lunch (well, _her_ lunch—his dinner), and she says goodbye feeling worse than she already did. Though she knows it's the insomnia dictating her mood, it doesn't help much. While she usually tries to make the best of what she has, tonight is proving a challenge. Sighing, she clocks back into work, deciding to work on a coding side-project because work is slow. "'To sleep: perchance to dream,'" she mutters under her breath, wishing the next four hours of work away so that she can curl up in her bed.

"That sounds poetic," a voice answers, and Felicity nearly jumps out of her chair. It's been a long time since someone has managed to sneak up on her; heightened senses make sure that she can at least hear or smell the other people around her. It takes her a moment to realize the air has switched off, which means she doesn't have the movement of air on her side to discover his scent, and if his footsteps are quiet enough, the carpet will muffle them.

Irritated with the failing of the senses she depends upon so much, she pokes her head around the monitor with a frown to stare at her visitor. Staring seems to be less complicated than frowning, though, because he's quite lovely to look at—a lovely combination of intelligent blue eyes, brown hair, and a square jaw line covered by thick stubble. His gray sweater fits tight enough to hint at a muscular frame, but somehow, Felicity thinks it's a bit understated.

It takes her a moment to recognize him, and when she does, all of her previous anger abates in favor of surprise. It's rare they get a celebrity in Tech Village _at all_ , much less during her shift. And _especially_ not someone as famous at the moment as _Oliver Queen_. Words don't readily form on her tongue—a rarity for her—but, fortunately, someone else saves her from herself.

"Of course it's poetic," a second man cuts in. The suit and tie make her think he's a bodyguard, especially because he's _not_ trying to hide his build. But, then again, the smile and the casual way he speaks to the Queen scion belies something like friendship. "It's Shakespeare, which you'd know if you actually studied anything in college." He extends a hand across the desk, and Felicity can't help it when her nose wrinkles in distaste. She doesn't like to touch humans if she can avoid it. "I'm John Diggle, and I think you probably recognize my employer"—it's said with an ironic tone—"Oliver Queen. You must be Felicity Smoak."

Reluctant though she is, Felicity shakes his hand. "That's right," she assures him of her identity as she motions to the two chairs on the other side of the desk. "How can I help you two?"

"I'm just along for the ride," the bodyguard assures her as he drops into one of the chairs. The look that passes between the two men indicates anything but, especially the hint of humor on the bodyguard's face coupled with the frown that the young heir responds with. "You'll have to talk to Oliver about that."

After Felicity flashes him a polite smile, she turns to the younger man with a burning sense of curiosity. "What can I do for you, Mr. Queen?" There has to be a reason why he chose here, of all places, for his computer support. She knows he has an entire IT department waiting for him at Queen Consolidated; she had been perched to become a part of it, had the whole Cooper Debacle and subsequent blood-and-fangs situation never happened.

Grimacing at something she's said, he insists, "For starters, you can call me Oliver. Mr. Queen was my father."

Because karma is an absolute bitch who is _still_ torturing her for that one screw-up, she somehow manages to blurt, "But he's dead." He blinks twice, probably in absolute horror, and Felicity rushes quickly to cover her mistake. "I mean, he drowned." Well, _that_ was better. "Which you probably already know because you were there, and you probably didn't want to be reminded of it." Closing her eyes, she continues, "And in three seconds, I'm going to make a coherent sentence come together." After taking a deep breath, she counts, "Three… two… one."

When she opens her eyes, Oliver smiling at her in pure amusement. Something about the set of his mouth strikes a chord with her memory, but she dismisses it. If she'd met Oliver Queen in a previous life, Felicity would most certainly remember. "I seem to be having some trouble with my computer," he continues without missing a beat, apparently more generous with her verbal gaffes than she deserves. "I thought that someone here could help me with it."

Felicity can't help it; she cringes when the laptop comes into view. Battered is too kind a word for it; the poor thing looks like a war zone happened on top of it, complete with a tank rolling over it. As if sensing her hesitance, he continues. "I was at my coffee shop surfing the web," he lies so badly it makes her heart hurt, "and I spilled a latte on it."

Though she likes to think of herself as a generous person, the blonde can't help but lose a little patience with that. Apparently she isn't the only one; Mr. Diggle raises an eyebrow at Oliver in question before shaking his head. She finds herself shaking her own when she opens the lid and finds actual evidence that Oliver Queen is lying through his teeth. She turns it around to face him with a quirked eyebrow of her own. "Not that I don't believe you, _Oliver_ ," she starts with a strong sense of irony, "but this doesn't _look_ like a latte accident." She pokes a turquoise fingernail into one of the three holes on the screen. "Actually, this kind of looks like a bullet hole."

Mr. Diggle breaks into a grin immediately, studying Felicity with something akin to approval before leveling a look at his employer. Oliver nods once, pressing his lips together. "My coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood," he answers simply, insistent upon continuing the lie.

Not deigning fit to give that one a response, she simply looks at him over the top of her glasses for a moment. In response, he just flashes her the prettiest insincere smile she's ever seen in her life, exposing his pearly whites and very human canine teeth. (It's something Felicity pays attention to, now that her own are noticeably pointy.) "If you could salvage anything from it," he continues with a delightful chuckle in his voice, "I'd really appreciate it."

Instead of answering immediately, she decides to let him stew as she takes a sip from her Big Belly Burger cup, careful to ensure none of the blood smears on her lips. He's just starting to get a little antsy, that thousand-watt smile starting to fade, when she answers. "Damage seems to be contained to the screen," she notes in a thoughtful tone. Then she picks it up, examining the bottom. "The hard drive compartment seems to have survived the carnage intact." She stops to level a look at him. "Which, by the way, would have been one of the first things damaged if you spilled something in the keyboard." Mr. Diggle actually laughs at that, even as Oliver throws him a look. "The components are delicate, so no promises, but I've done more with less." She frowns. "But if the smallest thing is wrong with the power supply when I boot it up, this whole thing could become a very expensive paperweight."

He slides forward, to the edge of his seat. "I'm willing to try if you are," he answers with a shrug. "Go ahead and see what happens."

She nods. "I'm your girl," Felicity answers absently as she starts to hook up the laptop, but then she cringes. "I mean, I'm _not_ your girl—I wasn't making a pass at you." After stopping to wave a hand, she adds honestly, "I don't think you've ever done anything bad enough to deserve _that_."

Fortunately, the laptop powers up without a problem, the screen popping up on the troubleshooting monitor without a hitch. At least, until the password prompt pops up. Felicity turns to Oliver with a smirk, careful not to flash her teeth. "Let me guess, you forgot your password, too?"

Despite the obvious lie, she can't help but admit that his self-deprecating smile is spot-on. "I really need to remove that feature—I can't seem to keep up with mine."

Felicity rolls her eyes as she plugs the laptop up to her main computer, then pulls up the password override software. "It should take a few minutes to override," she informs him. "It would be faster to do it by hand, but I'd have to access—" His eyes actually glaze over, and she remembers that not everyone finds this as fascinating as she does. "Sorry to bore you with the techno-speak. It will be done in a few minutes." To fill the following silence, she takes a long drink from her cup.

Mr. Diggle seems to be the first to notice the logo and put two and two together. "I hope we didn't interrupt your lunch break, Miss Smoak," he hints before giving Oliver a look. "If you'd like, we can always come back later to pick up that information."

"Felicity," she insists firmly. "'Miss Smoak' makes me feel like I should be in a period drama. And my lunch hour ended at eleven," she assures him. "You've saved me from another four hours of complete boredom. I've mostly been tinkering around with computers to avoid reading the rest of my book." She points to it on the corner of her desk. "It's actually kind of awful, but I always finish books when I start reading them. And I refuse to let this piece of misery become the black mark on my record."

Because Oliver seems to be quiet and tends not to ask any questions, she assumes it's because he's a bored billionaire and, while polite, he doesn't really give a damn about carrying on conversation with a woman who clearly has no interest in taking him to bed. (What he doesn't know is that he wouldn't want her to, anyway. Felicity has a tendency to bite—and not in the fun way. More in the I'm-going-to-drain-you-dry way.)

However, the blonde vampire decides that she's read him completely wrong when he picks up the book with a curious frown, turning it over in his hand to read the synopsis. Maybe she's mistaken his self-contained personality for disinterest. Finally he finishes reading it, looking between her and the book he places back on her desk in precisely the same spot. "A vampire novel?" he asks her, tilting his head to the side in a mixture of surprise and confusion.

The one plus of being a vampire, Felicity has always thought, is that her blood typically doesn't flow as well to the surface capillaries, mostly ridding her of the ability to blush in embarrassment. However, she finds that, every great once in a while, she can manage a pink tint across her cheeks if she's suitably embarrassed.

When her skin suddenly feels warm across her face, she knows it's one of those rare instances. She tries to shrug it off, though, like she isn't completely mortified that Oliver Queen just called her out. "Guilty pleasure," she explains, even though it's more like a study in sociology for her. It's interesting how humans see the race they believe to be mythical, how many variations there are.

Fortunately, the computer finishes breaking the password before she has to explain further. With a triumphant smile, Felicity says, "I'm in." Oliver leans across the desk to see the screen, and she waves him to move around the desk with a roll of her eyes. If he's still trying to insist this is his computer, the least he could do is _act_ like he isn't curious.

"Doesn't look like there's much on here," she comments, pulling up the list of files. "Two emails to an anonymous remailer service and an image file." Felicity turns to look at him. "The emails are encrypted, and I can't trace them, anyway. But the picture? I can work with that." She takes a deep breath through her nose before turning back to the screen, and that's when his scent finally reaches her senses.

To say it hits her like a battering ram would be an understatement. The scent isn't particularly potent or strong; it's subtle, and he certainly doesn't smell _bad_. (His _human_ scent, she means, the one that identifies him to her independently. Of _course_ he doesn't smell bad to other humans; he's so loaded up on nice soaps and colognes that, as her gran would say, he smells like a French perfume shop.) Maybe it's the soap thing that masked it for her at first, but no way would she fail to recognize how wonderful he smells at close proximity like this.

Or how much he smells like a certain arrow-wielding vigilante.

Suddenly it all makes sense to her: the laptop, the pathetic lies, the way he made sure to visit _her_ with his computer problems, the smile that seemed way too familiar, the eyes that seem to focus on the room too sharply for a partying billionaire. Apparently Oliver Queen is more than he seems, much like Felicity herself. For the first time, she finds herself curious about his five-year trip to an uncharted island, wondering just what could possibly turn a womanizer into a vigilante.

As it is, she tries to save those thoughts for later; she'll have plenty of time to think about Oliver Queen when she pretends to sleep today. Instead, she brings up the picture, taking a drink as she tilts her head to the side to study it for a moment. "These look like blueprints," she notes.

Oliver responds by dropping a hand on the back of her chair, his fingers brushing between her shoulder blades as he leans over her shoulder to get a better look at the screen. His other hand reaches over her shoulder, resting the heel of his palm on the desk next to the hand she had on her mouse. Though he doesn't realize it, he's taunting the beast with his close proximity, and her eye teeth start to extend of their own accord. _No biting_ , Felicity tries to remind herself. The message is immediately discarded, however, when his breath tickles her ear as he responds, "Do you know what of?"

It takes all of her self-control to keep her fangs from extending beyond her lips. She clamps her jaw together, eyes watering as the fangs in her overbite pierce her own gum line. It does the trick, though, because they start to retract. "It looks like the exchange building—the one where the Unidac Industries auction is scheduled to take place." She can't help fixing him with a knowing smirk as she turns to study his face. "I thought you said this was your laptop."

Without missing a beat, he nods several times in succession. "Yes," he answers with false solemnity.

The whole scenario is so ludicrous that Felicity can't suppress a laugh as she shakes her head, and Oliver Queen looks utterly pleased with himself. Clearly she isn't going to get any answers out of him like this. Maybe when she wraps her head around this mess, she can try to confront him about it. "As something of note," she adds as she pulls up the screen, "this is a company laptop associated with one of the guys that are competing for it, Warren Patel." She turns to him. "As a side note, so is Walter Steele. Does that help you with… whatever you needed to know?"

It takes him a moment to respond, as though he's assessing her before trusting her with even the answer to this one question. "It does," Oliver decides to answer finally, slowly pulling himself upright. The hand on the back of her chair moves to her shoulder, and Felicity wonders if he's _that_ oblivious, or if just likes flirting with danger. "Thank you, Felicity."

That's the final thing to confirm his identity: the way he says her name, with a quiet yet burning curiosity. Almost like he's trying to figure out the puzzle of Felicity Smoak, the same way she's trying to decipher Oliver Queen. "Not a problem, Oliver," she assures him, surprised to find that it's the truth. "It was… weird meeting you, but in a good way."

Mr. Diggle actually chuckles at that. "I think that's probably nicer than he deserves," he adds with some seriousness. "I hope this is the _weirdest_ thing that happens to you this week, though."

After shutting down and unhooking the laptop, Felicity pulls one of her business cards from the holder in the front of the desk, preparing to write on the back of it. Having a sudden urge to throw a cat among the pigeons, she answers dryly, "It's already too late for _that_ , Mr. Diggle. Yesterday I was saved by a guy in a Halloween costume who uses a weapon that hasn't been considered modern since the seventeen-hundreds. This is nothing."

For a brief moment as he processes, the bodyguard's eyes flick to Oliver with confusion across his features before throwing a soft laugh at Felicity. The vigilante himself is more restrained, meeting her gaze with a perfect poker face. At least she knows he _can_ lie, but for some reason he's choosing to do it badly around her. Still, it confirms an important point: John Diggle knows, and he's in on it somehow. However, he _didn't_ know that Oliver saved her last night, which is an interesting mystery.

Felicity finishes writing on the back of the business card, then holds it out to Oliver. "In case you have any… sensitive computer problems that you don't want Tech Village to know about, that's my address." He seems surprised, even though they both know he's already aware of where she lives. "I work the night shift—four to seven—but you can drop by there during the day if you need to."

He takes the card with a slight nod before saying, "Goodnight, Felicity." With that, he nods at the bodyguard, and both of them leave just as quietly as they arrived. With a burning sense of curiosity, Felicity watches them go. Of the many things she hates, one of them will always be mysteries, and Oliver Queen is a giant mystery. The compulsion to solve it comes to her, but she forces it down for the moment. Later, she'll figure out what to do about it.

She arrives home four hours later to find a voice modulator on the bar in her kitchen with a note scrawled on it in a rough hand. _Thank you_ , it says—nothing more—but it makes Felicity smile so wide her teeth show. Of course he would drop it off while she was at work, when she wouldn't see him come or go. Part of her wonders if he dropped it there before or after he came to see her at Tech Village. Still wide awake, she pulls a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream out of her refrigerator and a spoon out of the drawer, deciding she needs to process this a little.

When she drops the repaired modulator on the table two hours later, she smirks as she writes the answering note.

* * *

 _Playlist:_

 _"Weightless" - All Time Low_  
 _"Mz. Hyde" - Halestorm_  
 _"In the Middle of the Night" - Within Temptation_  
 _"Afterlife" - Avenged Sevenfold_  
 _"M.I.N.E. (End This Way)" - Five Finger Death Punch_  
 _"Break" - Three Days Grace_  
 _"Believe" - Hollywood Undead_  
 _"Careful" - Paramore_  
 _"Absolute" - Thousand Foot Krutch_  
 _"Heaven Knows" - The Pretty Reckless_


	2. In the Light of Day

**Part: 2 - In the Light of Day  
Word Count: 8471**

 **Notes:** It's been a long week since I've seen you guys last! I have no Internet at home (hopefully that will be over soon), so I haven't been able to talk to you as much. Here's the next chapter—I hope y'all enjoy! :D

* * *

It's just after eleven when Oliver slips into the fenced-in yard, using the shadows and trees to blend in with his surroundings. Though it's a precaution he takes, it probably isn't necessary; most of the lights are off in the other houses, or dim enough to be lamps, as if everyone has gone to bed. Still, if he's breaking into a house in a residential neighborhood, he's going to be careful.

Once he reaches the back door, it only takes him six seconds to pick the lock, and he frowns the same way he did before at this fact. If Felicity is living alone—as he suspects—and on the fringes of the Glades, she should probably invest in locks that protect her home more efficiently. But that isn't his concern or his place to tell her; she's simply a passing acquaintance in his life and nothing more. Maybe it's because of the circumstances of their first encounter, but something makes him feel oddly protective of the petite blonde.

Because he already promised that he wouldn't intrude more than he had to, Oliver makes a line for the kitchen where he left the note. He picks up the voice modulator, testing it once before deciding that Felicity Smoak is every bit the technology genius he thought she was. With a smile, he clips it onto his jacket, and only then does he see the note she's left behind.

He reads it once and slowly the words in her precise, bubbly print start to sink in. Just to be sure, though, he reads it a second time. And a third. Finally, that sinking feeling makes his stomach drop, and only then do the words permeate. Her wording is innocent at first, but it all changes when Oliver reads between the lines.

Dropping the paper as though it burned him, he places the modulator on top of it again. Frowning, he decides this puts him in a difficult position. Usually he'd talk to Diggle about things like this, but Oliver knows he wouldn't like Digg's solution. The last time the vigilante encountered a problem like this, he did exactly what he does best. But that option isn't exactly appealing when it comes to Felicity. After a long moment, he comes to a decision, leaving both items on the counter and moving back to the door he entered through.

This is a conversation they need to have in person.

* * *

Knocking on the door for the third time in the row, Oliver finds himself starting to lose patience with this venture. It's nine a.m. and he knows she's home, and he's determined to talk to her _now_. This is too important to leave hanging between them, and he deserves to know for certain just how trustworthy she is.

Just when he's about to start pacing outside her door, he hears a very quiet voice call out, "Who is it?" Her voice is raspy with sleep, and Oliver feels a little guilty about waking her when she had those dark circles under her eyes the last time. For whatever reason, she looked exhausted and pale, and he understands insomnia on a very personal level. He only had two hours of sleep last night himself.

In an attempt to answer her question, he calls back, "Oliver."

Silence stretches on between them for a long moment, as though Felicity is trying to process his words. Finally, she replies with another question: " _Queen?_ " He can't help chuckling at her confusion. When he affirms her suspicions, she continues. "Give me just a minute. And, don't take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?"

There are several ways to answer that question, but very few that can be discussed with a door between them. So, instead, he answers, "We need to talk." As soon as the words leave his mouth, he winces; Oliver has been on the receiving end of those words on several occasions, and they never mark anything good.

Felicity seems to have arrived at the same conclusion. Her voice is closer this time as she replies, "You know those words never end well, right? My mother uses that phrase whenever she wants to scar me for life, and the last time a guy said that to me…" She trails off, oddly silent for a moment. "Well, let's just say it didn't end well."

The door swings open, and Oliver isn't prepared for the sight that greets him. Felicity looks just as tired as he expects, the dark circles more pronounced than before. What he doesn't expect is her blonde hair to be loose and wild, tangled in places from tossing and turning. Her glasses are off as she squints at him, with no makeup and no vibrant lipstick. A pink tank peeks out from under a blue zipup hoodie, and her pants are covered with pigs in scarves and glasses. For the first time, he notices that she has a slight overbite, her teeth poking out from under her top lip when she makes a face.

A smile stretches across his face of its own accord, so wide that it hurts.

"Whatever it is, it sounds important," Felicity mutters, just before a yawn splits her jaw. "Come on in." When she opens the door wider, he notices that she's staying in the shadow of the door and out of the sunlight. She waves him in and, when he looks down to avoid stepping on her feet, he notices that her toenails are painted like ladybugs, which makes him smile all over again.

Before he can start asking questions, she points toward the kitchen. "I'm probably going to need sustenance if I'm going to be awake for this conversation." Then she points toward her living area. "Have a seat—I'll join you in just a minute." Oliver watches her take a few more steps toward the bar before she freezes, seeing the voice modulator still there. Then he hears her mutter, " _Definitely_ going to need sustenance."

Oliver does as she asks, but only because he can see her from his seat on the couch, making sure she doesn't try to run, even though it doesn't seem like a Felicity response. His eyes flicker across the room to study his surroundings, and he notices that the curtains over the huge bay window are drawn shut. Even more interesting is the fact they seem to be blackout panels—something Oliver is familiar with because he had them over his own windows during his youth to help with his hangovers. Maybe he doesn't have the right to make assumptions about Felicity after only a handful of encounters, but he assumed her house would be light and open—much like Felicity herself.

But, then again, the information he dug up suggests that she also likes her secrets. After his discovery last night, he looked into her—the same way he had with Diggle before making him a part of this crusade. While the search on Diggle had returned a full background that basically showed his life since eighteen, Felicity's only returned a handful of items. Born in Las Vegas to a single mother. Graduated from a public high school at fourteen, Master's from MIT by nineteen. Tax returns from Tech Village for the last three years, all of them listing a post office box as her permanent address and her work phone as her only contact. A cell phone plan is registered in her name, but it's the one Tech Village furnishes her with, and her personal one is probably a prepaid. Hell, Oliver wouldn't even have found her home address if she hadn't given it to him; she most likely rents, meaning it stays out of the system.

If there's one thing that Oliver has discovered about Felicity Smoak, it's that she doesn't want to be found.

Finally she returns with a silver thermos and a coffee mug that reads, _Contents may contain iocane powder_ , choosing to settle into the oversized chair in the corner. Another yawn courses through her, and Oliver grimaces. "I'm sorry to wake you, Felicity."

She shrugs a shoulder as she sips from the mug. "No rest for the wicked," she answers with a smile that he's beginning to recognize. Something about it starts off genuine, but yet it somehow manages to fall short before it reaches her eyes. Before he can spend too long pondering it, though, she takes a longer drink from the mug. When Felicity finishes, there's a red tinge to her upper lip; she must be drinking some kind of juice or energy drink, Oliver decides. She swipes her tongue across it before prompting him, "Go ahead—ask your questions."

To Oliver, there's no question in it. It was clear enough when he read her response to his note: _You can thank me by coming up with a better lie the next time you bring me a computer._ She has linked his two identities, and while she's indicated that she's willing to help him, some things just need to be said in order to be believed. "You know," he states simply, leaving it implied that he wants her to tell him _how_ she knows.

He's starting to think that shoulder shrug is some sort of tell, much like the almost-genuine smile she flashes him on occasion. "I connected a few dots and drew a few conclusions," Felicity replies in a firm tone, indicating that it's all he's going to get from her. "But if you're wondering if I'll help you, the answer is yes." He looks up in surprise, studying the blonde with a new perspective. "I can't be a part of your operation because of my job at night, but I _can_ set up a computer network that hooks you into the SCPD and federal databases. And you can come to me for help whenever you get an encrypted laptop that belongs to an international assassin." Before he can ask, she offers a smile. "I saw it on the news last night, and it explains the bullet holes a lot better than your coffee shop story."

Though he knows she's being honest with him, Oliver can't help but be surprised by the turn of the conversation. Very few people understand what it is that he does, and he partially expected her to turn him in if she ever found out. Apparently, though, she's willing to help him. "Tell me what you need," he says after a long moment, "and I'll have it waiting for you at the base."

She laughs for some reason he doesn't quite understand. "'Base'?" Felicity repeats after taking another drink from her mug. "Did I miss the part where we became part of a seventies war movie?" She shakes her head with a smile, and, instead of being offended, Oliver finds that his lips tilt upward of their own accord. "I'll make a list for you over the next few days. In the meantime, you'll need my phone number if you need anything." She holds her hand out, curling her fingers back toward her a few times. "Give me the goods." Felicity's cheeks take on a light pink color, and it takes him a moment to realize why. "And by 'goods,' I mean your phone. Not anything else."

This time he manages to bite back a smile, pulling his phone out of his pocket and handing it to her. After a few swipes of her fingertips, Felicity hands it back. "Now you should be able to contact me—other than breaking into my house every night." She tilts her head to the side. "Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?" For most people, it would be an indication to leave, but Oliver can see the curiosity burning in her eyes. She genuinely thinks there might be something else to talk about.

He rises to his feet and she pulls herself out of her chair. "You should get a new lock for your back door," he answers truthfully. "Any amateur with a set of lockpicks can get through that one." Then he throws her a smile. "Other than that, just your list."

Felicity scoffs lightly, laughing at something Oliver doesn't quite understand with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Anyone who breaks into my house will get more than they bargained for," she assures him. "Meaner than I look, remember? Anyway, I should have that list for you in a day or two."

Oliver reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder, noticing again how she pulls away from the touch. He noticed it before in the alleyway when Felicity kept him at arm's length, and then again when Diggle offered his hand to shake. It's another curiosity, another thing to make him wonder just how much of Felicity that anyone really gets to know. Still, it doesn't stop him from stating, "Thank you, Felicity." Then he hesitates a moment before insisting, "You look tired. Get some rest."

Throwing him a smile, Felicity replies dryly, "I would, if someone would quit waking me during the day."

* * *

When he sees that familiar head of brown hair, Oliver doesn't hesitate to smash out one of the windows in the prison to reach Laurel and Peter Declan. It's large enough that he can slide through it, boots crunching across the broken glass. While Declan is an innocent man in Iron Heights who deserves to live through his wrongful imprisonment, Laurel is only there because Oliver dragged her into this. And, for that, he means to keep her safe.

With that in mind, he goes to her first, even as he takes in the dead guard on the floor. "Are you okay?" he asks after making sure that the modulator is turned on, and, sure enough, his voice is clear and distinct. Not surprisingly, Felicity made amazing improvements to the modulator—in addition to working up some other equipment to help him in the field.

Declan nods vehemently, and Laurel answers, "We're okay." Her voice is breathless with adrenaline, but she doesn't seem to have any injuries. Oliver only hopes he can keep her that way; it's been a long time since he's fought to protect someone, and he's not sure that his skills are up to the challenge.

He nods once, moving to the door. "We need to exit now, before the inmates take over the entire prison," Oliver informs them. The thought is halted, however, when he pushes against the door, only to find it locked. His eyes go to the guard again, looking for any keys that might be on his person. But then his eyes go back to the door, and he notices the green light on the lock, just above the keypad. In order to keep the prisoners out, the guard locked them in, using a numeric combination.

Oliver is already reaching for his cell phone as soon as he finishes the thought. He hears Laurel ask who he's calling, but he ignores her as he clips the Bluetooth headset Felicity gave him over his ear. He slides the cell back into his inside pocket just as she answers. "If this is about the list of computer equipment, Oliver," she starts, "I'm sorry about the price, but it's non-negotiable if you want this system to do everything I said it would. ARGUS-level decryption software doesn't come cheap. But if you want to cut down on our hack list, I can mark some things off."

"This isn't about the servers," Oliver assures her. "I've already purchased all the equipment—I'll pick you up at eleven tomorrow morning so that you can start setting it up." He hesitates, unsure of how she'll take the news of his most recent mission. "I'm calling because I… might have a situation."

A deep sigh comes from the other side of the line. "Why do I have a feeling that the 'might' in that sentence actually means ' _do_ '?" she asks him. "Bring your arrow-related business by the office and we'll talk about it. This may surprise you, but we're not very busy around here."

It's Oliver's turn to sigh, flashing a frustrated frown. He _knew_ she wouldn't like this, and, for some odd reason, a part of him hates causing Felicity added misery. "That's part of the problem," he admits. "I can't come to you. I'm at Iron Heights. Brodeur paid for a hit on Declan—there's a riot going on right now. He's with me, but we're trapped. Can you hack in?"

She scoffs. "Oliver Queen, I am insulted that you even feel the need to ask that question," she declares, and he can practically picture her rolling her eyes. "Give me just a minute—I need to hack into their security systems. It should be like stealing evidence files from the SCPD servers." She pauses. "That's like taking candy from a baby, by the way."

Before he can do more than smile at her words, Laurel pulls on his arm, eyes wide and wild with nervous panic. "How are we going to get out of here?" she asks. "They use electronic locks here—you can't get out without the passcode, and we can't reach the keypad from in here, anyway."

Just this once, Oliver can actually give her the truth. "I have the best hacker in the city working on it, Laurel," he assures her. Then he changes the subject, addressing it to both her and Declan. "When this door opens, you stay behind me. Do you understand?" He earns nods from both of them in response.

"I'd accuse you of flattery if it wasn't the truth," Felicity states in his ear. "But that voice did _not_ sound like Peter Declan." Her voice turns teasing, and his mouth turns up without permission. "Wait, you called her Laurel. Is that _your_ Laurel? _Gorgeous_ Laurel?" He braces himself for the onslaught of commentary on his love life, but it never comes. "Not that it's my business, but I'm not sure that bringing a civilian into the team is a good idea. She doesn't have the same training as you or Digg, and I know you'd be devastated if anything happened to her. And before you say that this is a jealousy thing or a woman-versus-woman thing, I really admire Laurel for her work at CNRI, and and I'm nowhere _near_ interested in dating again. My last boyfriend was a disaster—except for the sex. And frankly _amazing_ sex is no excuse for—"

"Felicity," Oliver snaps loudly, causing Laurel to jump next to him. It may have been rash, but something tells him that allowing this conversation to continue would be a _horrible_ idea; he does _not_ need to include Felicity and sex in the same thought. "That's not going to be an issue." Softer, he asks, "Have you hacked into the system yet?"

"I'm in, but it's going to take me a minute to override control of the main security server," she answers, still pecking away at the keyboard. "But the good news is that I already have the surveillance wired in." Suddenly the camera in the corner swivels to focus on him. "Smile for the camera, Oliver." He can't help chuckling, and then she insists, "No, really—wave at the camera or something so I can see what kind of lag I have." With a frown, he waves two fingers at the camera. "Good, just a few seconds. I can work with that."

The blonde continues muttering to herself, and Oliver listens to her with a slight smile, knowing she doesn't expect him to respond. "And Houston, we have ignition," she notes absently. "Overriding system control… and… Oliver, are you ready for me to open the door?"

After nocking an arrow, he answers, "Ready whenever you are." To the charges he means to protect, he states again, "Stay behind me."

The door beeps, and the light turns red. This time when he pushes against it, the door opens out into the hallway. "Following you on the cams—I should have the doors open as you reach them, but if you need them open earlier, let me know," Felicity answers. A prisoner charges him, and Oliver puts an arrow in him before he can take more than two steps.

"And just as a note for tomorrow?" she continues. "I don't usually get out during the day because I'm allergic to sunlight. I break out in these nasty red blotches and they're uncomfortable." Felicity pauses, but resumes before he can say anything, as he's too preoccupied with the next inmate to charge them. He goes down with an arrow through the throat. "And before you say anything, sunscreen doesn't help. But I would _love_ to feel the sun on my face again." There's so much longing in her voice that it makes him hurt for her.

While pulling two arrows out of his quiver and firing them into two more inmates, he promises her, "I'll think of something." Of that, he's certain; Oliver feels that he owes her at least that much for all of her help.

Conscious of how many inmates there are and how few arrows he has, Oliver decides not to pull his bow this time when four men rush him at once. When he punches the first man, another grabs him from behind, and the vigilante flips the inmate over his shoulder, dropping him to the ground. The third inmate takes a kick in the stomach, then Oliver grabs him by the throat and locks him into a hold. While the fourth man is occupied by a right hook, he yells at Laurel and Declan, "Go now!"

They run through the otherwise clear hallway, and Oliver follows after them. Only seconds after he's through, the door locks into place. "I hope it's okay that I'm locking the doors behind you," Felicity says into his earpiece, her voice unusually grave this time. "You'll have to give me some warning if you decide to make a tactical retreat."

As he leads the group forward, he responds with a hint of irritation, "I don't retreat." Maybe it's pride speaking, but he feels like that's an important point that she needs to be made aware of. He doesn't retreat, he doesn't give in.

"No need to get all grr about it, Oliver," she snaps right back. It's one of the things he likes about her; Felicity Smoak doesn't make tactical retreats, either. "I'm just outlining your options here. And, as the saying goes, those who fight and run away, live to fight another day." There's a meter to the way she says it, almost as if she's singing it. A breathy chuckle leaves him of its own accord. Suddenly her tone changes. "Oh my _God_ , that is _horrible_."

Oliver immediately holds up a hand to tell Laurel and Declan to stop pressing forward. "What do you see, Felicity?"

"Hmm?" she responds, sounding just as confused as him. "Oh, no, sorry. It wasn't anything on the security cameras." Oliver breathes a sigh of relief, but it turns quickly into irritation—and then amusement—as she continues. "The ice in my drink has melted, and now it's all watery. Watered-down drinks deserve a special place in Hell." There's a slight pause, and he can practically see her tilting her head to the side, her hands waving as she backtracks somewhat. "Not that I believe in Hell. I'm Jewish by definition, but I can't bring myself to believe in Heaven or Hell. Because if there's a Hell, that's where I'm headed and I don't want to spend the rest of my life thinking about an afterlife of pain and misery."

Felicity is honestly the last person he'd expect this level of moralistic debate from, but he can't help but agree with parts of her speech. As he starts them moving forward again, he responds with the only sense of humor he has left. Though it's morbid and macabre, he answers, "If there is a Hell, I promise to save you a seat by the fire."

For a moment, Oliver isn't sure what she'll think, but then he decides it was the right choice of words when Felicity laughs. "I'm going to hold you to that," she replies, her tone serious. She doesn't try to convince him otherwise, and he finds himself grateful for that. "I have a feeling Barry is going to be nominated for sainthood, and I'm going to need some company down there. I've heard eternal damnation can be lonely—maybe we should use the buddy system."

Then he hears her fingers clicking on the keyboard, and her voice is more serious when she notes, "It looks like you're just a few cell blocks away from the entrance now. SWAT is starting to set up outside. If you don't want to be a permanent resident, I'd suggest leaving now."

"Only when Laurel and Declan are under SWAT protection," he answers firmly, letting Felicity know that there's no room for argument on this point. If he's protected them this long only for the two of them to die here, it will have been for nothing. He's not walking away until this mission is complete, no matter what it takes.

An inmate blindsides him, charging into Oliver. Because he has a heavier build than the vigilante, it sends him staggering against the floor. For a moment, Oliver can barely maintain consciousness. As he tries to lift himself off the floor, he is vaguely aware of Felicity calling his name with rising panic, but screams are what pull him out of his stupor. One thought makes him push off the ground, stumbling forward.

While their relationship in the past has been complicated and even toxic at times, Oliver has always been in love with Laurel. But he isn't an idiot; he knows that she and Tommy have something now, and he could never be with her because of this crusade he's started against the criminals running the city. She's important to him on an integral level, and he will _not_ let anything happen to her.

With those thoughts in mind, he acts. Oliver doesn't think, he doesn't hesitate—he just _does_. By the time he understands what is happening, Felicity is yelling in his ear, Laurel is tugging at his sleeve, and the man underneath him is long past unconsciousness. He finally rises to his feet, and when he meets Laurel's eyes, he knows what she must be thinking about him. He can hear the police in the background and knows they're closing in, so he does the only thing he can think of to do at this point.

Oliver runs.

Along the way, Felicity keeps up with his path on the cameras, guiding him out through a second exit. Her voice is somber now, all business and no teasing or rambling. Oliver doesn't know if it's because she senses his change in mood or because she's thinking horrible things about him, but he wants to believe it isn't the latter.

Finally, he bursts through an already cracked window to escape, hanging up on Felicity with a terse, "Thank you, Felicity." Oliver scrambles through the window, firing a rappelling arrow at the top of the nearest building. He slides over the ledge, pulling himself up and removing the arrow from its target. When he does, he's just in time to watch Laurel give her statement to Detective Lance, and the three words she offers cut him deeper than any weapon.

"He's a monster."

* * *

Oliver hesitates before knocking on the door to Felicity's house, rolling back on his heels and clutching the paper bag in his hand as he waits for some sort of response. He hasn't spoken to her since last night, when he all but hung up on her, and the blonde is already secretive as it is. While the rift with Laurel isn't one he thinks he can repair, he doesn't want to alienate Felicity, too. She already clearly has some reluctance about their friendship—while friendly, she keeps him at arm's length—and Oliver is surprised to realize he might actually miss her presence in his life.

But, if she wants to walk away now, he won't try to stop her.

Just to be on the safe side, he knocks once more before he leaves, a little louder this time. When he's about to leave, her voice finally comes through. "Is that you, Oliver?" He affirms her statement somewhat tentatively, deciding it's entirely possible that Felicity would tell him to get out of her life, instead of just shutting him out passively. Instead, she answers, "Right on time. The door's open—I'll be down in a minute."

Only then does Oliver allow himself a sigh of relief. She might be more hesitant to work with him now, but apparently Felicity is going to give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Knowing he isn't likely to get another chance, he turns the doorknob and lets himself in, closing it behind him. So many curiosities about the blonde could be solved if he were only to look around, but he doesn't want to betray what tenuous trust exists between them. Instead, he sits in the same oversized chair she had occupied during his last visit.

He doesn't have to wait long before she appears in the room, stopping at the staircase to smile at him. If she's disturbed by the darker side of him that she saw last night, it doesn't show on her face, the smile showing how genuinely pleased she is to see him. Surprisingly, Felicity doesn't seem to have any (or, at least, any _more_ ) reservations about him after his behavior last night.

She smooths down the front of her black and pink patterned sweater before sliding on a pair of flats under the hem of her jeans. Then she pushes her glasses up further on her nose and pushes her long, blonde hair back over her shoulder. "Hey," she calls with a smile. Then her eyes go to the bag in his hand. "Do I want to know what's in there?" she asks warily.

Placing it on the coffee table, Oliver answers, "I told Thea that a friend of mine was very sensitive to sunlight." He shrugs. "She always knows about fashion, and I thought she might know about clothing that would help." He nods to the bag, smiling at the way her eyes had lit up at the idea of shopping for someone. "She told me to give those to you."

Felicity frowns as though she's uncomfortable, but not enough that she doesn't open the bag. Before she pulls anything out, the blonde comments, "I bet that was awkward." She waves a hand. "The questions, I mean. I don't know Thea, but she seems like the type to ask questions. Especially about me and you."

No way is Oliver going to tell her that Thea is _still_ asking questions about his "photosensitive friend." What he does decide to tell her, though, is the truth. "Thea understands me better than anyone else in my family," he responds. "She knows I'm not the same person I was five years ago, and she didn't ask further when I said you were my friend." While Thea didn't question their friendship like his mother or Tommy would have, her curiosity is that her brother has new friends in his life.

In his experience, that can be just as dangerous.

Finally the blonde pulls out a black hat with a wide brim that curls downward instead of out, the bottom half patterned in black and white. After studying it for a moment, she puts it on, seeming to concentrate on how it fits and shields her face from the sunlight. "Oh, she _is_ good," Felicity mutters, and Oliver takes that to mean she's pleased. Then she pulls out a pair of black leather gloves—something that no one would think twice about in the cooler climate. "If this works, Oliver," she states in a warning tone, "I'm sending your sister a thank-you note." He decides not to comment upon that, watching as the blonde grabs a purple peacoat from the rack beside the door and pulls it on. "Remind me, where are we going again? The base, I know, but where's 'base'?"

Oliver places a hand between her shoulder blades to usher her out as she pulls on her gloves, opening the door with his other hand. She tenses, as expected, but she also allows the contact instead of shying away—and he considers that progress. Even though he knows she doesn't like touches of any kind, he can't help but reach out when she's around. "I'll show you soon enough," he assures her.

When she turns around to lock up, Felicity replies with a smile, "I'm not sure we know each other well enough for that, Oliver." The teasing tone is back in her voice, and he can already feel his mouth turning up at the corners. "But since I'm out in the sun because of you, I'll give you this one." When she turns around, she throws him a smile so wide she flashes teeth.

Of the many quirks he's noticed about Felicity Smoak, one of them is that her smiles are always tight-lipped, as if she's careful not to flash her teeth. It's only because of that observation that he pays attention it now, and, for the first time he notices that her canine teeth are a little larger than he expects—that they come to dramatically sharp points.

He doesn't have long to think about it because moves to study the Ducati parked in her driveway. "Let me guess, you want me to ride on this thing with you," she almost accuses him, but it's with a slight upward curve of her lips, which Oliver takes as a good sign.

Because he knows he doesn't have to argue with her, he simply opens up the storage compartment, pulling out his one helmet. After climbing on, he offers it to her. "I only have one helmet," he tells her, "but you're welcome to it."

The smile that forms on her face is almost a smirk, as though she found something funny in his statement. "Keep it," she says instead. "After all, you're the Starling City Vigilante. You're a precious commodity, and we should protect you at all costs." After a moment's hesitation, she asks, "Do you mind if I…?" She trails off, waving her hand in his general direction. It takes him a moment to realize she's asking for permission to use him as a hand hold so that she can climb on, and he nods once in invitation.

Even through her black gloves, his leather jacket, and his plaid button-down, Oliver thinks her hand is a little too cold on his shoulder. But, then again, it's one of the cooler days of the season and she's small; she probably gets cold faster than he does. When Felicity's other hand feels the same way on his opposite shoulder, he dismisses it altogether.

After a moment, her hands flutter to his sides, just below his ribcage. "And I just hold on, right?" she asks as he pulls the helmet on. Her voice is higher than normal, and he thinks she might be a little nervous; maybe taking the bike wasn't the best idea, but it was the only vehicle he had keys to on short notice. If Oliver asked for the keys to the Mercedes or the Jaguar—the two most low-profile cars they own—someone would have started asking questions.

Oliver can safely say that was the last thing he wanted.

He can't help the light, breathy laugh under his breath at her hesitance, thinking that he's never had this problem with women before. Then he thinks that Tommy would absolutely love Felicity for her ability to tangle Oliver up in knots like this—if she didn't have the same effect on him, too, anyway. "Felicity, I don't bite," he assures her with a hint of humor.

"I know that, Oliver," she answers immediately, a knee-jerk response rooted in honesty. That tone she uses sometimes enters Felicity's voice again, the one that usually accompanies her almost-genuine smiles. "Of the two of us, I think _I'm_ the one more likely to bite." There's a slight pause. "Why are we talking about biting again?"

Slowly, so that she knows to expect it, his hands fall over hers. "My point is," he answers as he pulls her hands from his sides, "that you're going to fall off if you don't have a better grip, Felicity." Oliver pulls her hands forward until they overlap below his ribcage, using his arms to press hers against his abdomen. Now he can feel her pressed against his back, her legs flush against his. "Hold onto me tight," he warns her.

Her hands lock together as she answers quickly, "I imagined you saying that under different circumstances." Oliver's hand freezes halfway to the ignition, a smile forming on his lips as they both realize the innuendo in her words. This time, though, he thinks Felicity might have meant the sentiment, if not the words. "That is entirely _not_ what I meant to say," she backtracks with that panicked set to her voice again. "I meant that it sounded like something to say in an intimate situation, not that I've imagined _you_ in that situation." Her tone changes slightly as she mutters into his shoulder, "Not that anyone would blame me if I did. You _are_ unfairly handsome."

Knowing that last part wasn't meant for his ears, he smiles under the helmet but otherwise doesn't respond. Instead, he urges the bike forward into the street, and the sudden momentum causes Felicity to tighten her hold on him. Oliver tries to take the ride a little slower than usual until she gets comfortable. It takes her maybe two blocks to relax her hold on him, and that's when he picks up a little speed, weaving in and out of traffic effortlessly. After he learned how to maneuver Hong Kong traffic on a moped, this is nothing.

When they hit a red light, Felicity releases her hands from around his middle, flexing her fingers a few times, as though trying to work out a cramp from her deathgrip in the beginning of the ride. While one hand settles back on his abdomen, the other presses against his bicep to catch his attention. "Do you have a deathwish, Oliver?" the blonde asks him as she locks her hands together again. Her voice is an octave higher than normal and breathy, but he thinks he can hear a smile in there somewhere.

Just to be sure she's comfortable, though, he asks, "Do you want me to slow down?"

What he doesn't expect is the question she throws him in response: "Does this thing go any faster?" Felicity hesitates before adding, "I mean, if you're comfortable with that. I don't want you to wreck this thing because you're showing off. Something tells me you can't… do what you do with a broken arm."

"Do _you_ have a deathwish, Felicity?" Oliver retorts, and he's pleased to earn a laugh in return.

"I like the wind on my face," she answers thoughtfully. "I understand why you like this thing. I feel… _free_ on these streets." A weight presses into his shoulder, and he realizes that it's her chin. "That's part of why I walk to and from work—it doesn't make me feel trapped."

Something about the way she says it makes Oliver think she tries to lock herself up for some reason. It's there in the way Felicity wouldn't leave the house (she was perfectly capable of finding a hat and gloves on her own; she didn't need him or Thea for that), in the way she keeps her distance from everyone. He knows she wouldn't do it without a reason, and, for not the first time, he wonders just what makes her put up walls.

"I think I can handle a little speed, then," he finally answers her question, just as the light goes green.

Oliver throttles the ignition to keep going straight, just as a silver Mercedes convertible guns it around the corner to make a right on red. He swerves into the open turning lane to the left to avoid being run over, slowing down at the same time. Felicity tightens her grip around his middle with a yelp of surprise. "You okay?" he calls over his shoulder, already starting to pick up speed as he merges into his original lane.

Her hands relax almost instantly. "Just a little startled," she assures him. "Don't worry—I'm not going to throw up on you."

Chuckling at her statement, Oliver starts weaving through traffic again. Though the Mercedes is probably doubling the speed limit, but it still doesn't take him long with the small size of the Ducati on his side. As he pulls up even with it, he recognizes the driver. Of course it's Tommy; no one else would drive a Mercedes with that much recklessness. While Oliver might be travelling at high speeds, too, he's had training and experience.

Even though he knows he's going to catch hell for it later, Oliver also has places to be, so he slides in front of Tommy. No doubt he'll recognize the bike and ask questions about the girl with him, but right now, all that matters is getting to base so that Felicity can set up that network.

The rest of the ride passes without incident, and finally he reaches the foundry that once held Queen Consolidated's steel factory. He can feel Felicity studying the hole in the concrete wall (that he put in himself for easy access, but he doesn't say anything to her yet, and Oliver doesn't have to wait long before the blonde starts doing the all the talking.

She releases her hands from his waist, dropping them in her lap, and, by association, on top of his thighs. "Not that I mean to degrade your… super-secret spy lair," Felicity starts slowly as a smile starts to spread across his face, "but is this it? Because, I have to admit, this is a little anticlimactic. When you said 'underground base,' I thought you meant _secret hideout_. I'm talking high-tech cave, complete with secret entrance behind a waterfall."

Absently, she drums her fingers on the top of his thigh as she takes in the scenery, and Oliver thinks for the first time that she's a little too close for comfort. "The place could a little fixing up," Felicity continues, oblivious to their situation, "but hiding in plain sight like this is… well, devious." Finally she moves her hands to his shoulders again, pressing against them as she scrambles off the bike. She takes a few steps toward the gate. "And I mean that in a good way."

Oliver dismounts the bike as he removes his helmet. "I was thinking about turning the top level into a nightclub," he tells her as he stores the helmet in the storage compartment. "It would hide my movements at night and provide a cover for the base." He moves to stand by Felicity as he mentions casually, "I've talked to Tommy about it, and he seems interested in going into partnership. I'd like to channel the money back into the Glades at some point, after we start making a profit."

"Sounds like you really thought this out," Felicity comments, and she's the first person to say it without sounding surprised. Oliver starts forward without much thought, ushering her toward the building with a hand between her shoulder blades. This time she doesn't even seem to notice his touch—or, at the very least, she doesn't seem to _mind_ it. Even as she walks forward, her eyes seem to flicker around the building, until resting on the black Mercedes towncar parked within the fence line. "How does Mr. Diggle feel about me helping you with this… thing you're doing?"

His lips press together of their own accord, unsurprised that she put the two together. That Diggle had taken it badly would be an understatement, but his irritation had been focused on Oliver instead of Felicity, whom he had immediately liked. The ex-military man had accused him of being too easy to read, of dropping his guard around the blonde because she's beautiful and charming. While Oliver has noticed both of these things (he may only be interested in Laurel romantically, but he isn't dead yet), he has also noticed that Felicity is completely uninterested in relationships in general.

"Digg didn't like that I blew my cover," Oliver answers truthfully, "but he knows that you provide an important service to this team. His issues are with me, not with you."

Felicity scoffs. "You didn't blow your cover," she assures him, and Oliver can tell by her tone of voice that she isn't just trying to be nice. That almost-genuine smile plays upon her face again. "I'm a little more observant than other people—I doubt if anyone else would have noticed." What he likes about the statement is that she isn't bragging; Felicity states it as fact instead of boast. "I wasn't going to tell you," she admits after a long moment, as Oliver ushers her into the foundry, "but I thought you deserved to know."

Though he can't see well in the dark, windowless foundry, he _can_ feel; the air is colder in the nearly empty building, heavy enough that even he notices. The cold doesn't usually bother Oliver since the island, but somehow it's thicker here. He stops to allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden absence of light, but Felicity doesn't seem to be eager to stop. "Ugh, how do you see in here?" she asks him.

"I don't," he answers succinctly. His eyes still haven't adjusted, his whole world still dark, probably for a few minutes longer. "At least, not for a while. I boarded up the windows to prevent unwanted attention. When construction starts, it won't be an issue anymore."

"It's the staircase in the back corner, right?" Felicity asks for confirmation. Oliver's eyebrows furrow together in confusion, surprised by her ability to see that clearly in the dark—the staircase was hard to see even before he boarded up the windows to discourage snooping. After a long moment, he affirms her suspicions, and her only response is to slide her hand down his forearm.

The action surprises him, but not nearly as much as her very cold fingers on the back of his hand. Her fingers are ice on his skin, even through the gloves, and natural instinct makes him flinch away from the touch. It doesn't seem to deter her as she slides her hand into his, tugging him forward. Oliver doesn't hesitate to follow. "All corrected vision aside, my eyes are better than yours. Not to mention, I just really want to see it." She stops abruptly, and he can practically see her closing her eyes and counting backward from three in her head. "And by 'it,' I mean—"

"The base," he finishes for her with a smile as she starts urging him forward again. She presses his hand against the side of the wall just as he can finally start to see the staircase below him. Despite her excitement, Felicity follows him down the stairs instead of charging ahead.

Oliver enters to find Diggle starting to clear off their previous computer table. "Oh, John, you didn't have to—" Felicity starts, but she cuts off as she notices the bulky, white monitor he's carrying. "Actually, you did." She turns to the vigilante. "You _were_ in need of some computer help—this hurts me, Oliver. In my _soul_. At the very least, you could have gone to a Tech Village and said, 'I need the best computer system you have.' You're a billionaire—you shouldn't have a computer like this… _museum piece_."

Digg throws Oliver a look of approval; he apparently seems to like Felicity, which is more than the billionaire could hope for. He needs Felicity's computer skills and discretion for this crusade to work, but Oliver also needs John Diggle's military precision and clear head. Turning to the blonde, Digg notes, "I'm not sure he even knows what _Linux_ is, Felicity."

She shakes her head in response, looking as though that fact pains her. "Are you _trying_ to kill me, John?" Felicity demands. "Do me a favor and keep thoughts like those to yourself." She takes off her gloves, shoving them into the pockets of her purple peacoat. "Just give me a moment to get rid of my hat and coat, and I'll help you." As she takes off said items and throws them onto the metal gurney, she flashes Oliver a smile, holding up the hat. "Thank you. You have no idea how long it's been since I've been out in the sun."

As Diggle opens a box with his pocket knife, he asks conversationally, "The night shift messing you up?"

Reaching over to start pulling styrofoam out of the box, Felicity answers, "I'm allergic to sunlight—and no IT gremlin jokes, please. That's why I work nights in the first place." She pauses, using her hands for emphasis. "So I guess my allergy is messing me up, and the night shift is just a side effect." She pauses suddenly, shifting away from the older man. "And you must have cut yourself on that desk because your arm is bleeding." Though she tries to be casual, it's clear she has issues with it because she practically runs across the room to open another box. "You really need to clean that up."

The older man chuckles about that as he presses a towel to his arm, weaving his way through the array of boxes to the medical toolbox. "You're allergic to sunlight and you have blood issues," he notes in a good humor as he starts to treat the wound. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a vampire."

Felicity laughs, of course, but it comes too late. Oliver notices the way she stiffens at first, and he can't believe he's even contemplating it. Then again, he saw a _lot_ of unexplainable things in the last five years, and it would make a lot of things make sense. The sunlight allergy, her teeth, the cryptic comments, and even the way she seems to keep her distance from everyone else. It's an absurd thought, one that he should probably dismiss as something innocuous.

But, even as he convinces himself to do that, Oliver can't help but wonder.

* * *

 _Playlist:_

 _"The World I Used to Know" - We Came as Romans_  
 _"Through Glass" - Stone Sour_  
 _"Torture" - Picture Me Broken_  
 _" ." - Cherri Bomb_  
 _"Sink or Swim" - Falling in Reverse_  
 _"Breaking the Law" - Judas Priest_  
 _"Kill Everyone" - Hollywood Undead_  
 _"One for the Money" - Escape the Fate_  
 _"Bullet with Butterfly Wings" - The Smashing Pumpkins_  
 _"Love Like Winter" - AFI_


	3. Truth Will Set You Free

**Part: 3 - Truth Will Set You Free  
Word Count: 8452**

 **Notes:** This chapter has been… complicated to write, but I think it ended okay. The first ending was kind of rough, but I think I fixed it. Either way, it brings this story to a close—but not this universe. I'll be back to it soon enough, but right now, I'm trying to work through another plot bunny that attacked me last night, of all times. I have a quiz or test every day of the week for the foreseeable future, but hey, plot bunny. ;) Gotta love it.

Anyhow, thank you for reading along with the insanity. I hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

Growling obscenities at the damn woodpecker that has been driving her crazy for the past week, Felicity rises from her bed to scare it off so that she can actually sleep. However, when she finally stumbles to her window to squint at its normal perch on the tree, no red-headed woodpecker sits there. Which would be totally fine, if the tapping didn't persist.

It takes her a moment through a sleep-filled fog to realize the sound is too faint to be coming from her window, and finally it dawns on her that it's someone knocking on her front door. Scurrying to catch him before he leaves—because Felicity _knows_ it's Oliver—she rushes down the hall to the door, stopping only to grab her phone and slip it into the pocket of her pajama pants. She stumbles a few times on the stairs, catching her toes and potentially cracking her nail polish. Damn it, she should have put on her glasses before attempting anything as irksome as this. Too bad the whole vampire thing didn't correct her nearsightedness. She wishes it would have fixed her present problems, instead of the lame night vision thing.

If she needed that, she could get a pair of those goggles.

Finally she manages to scramble to the door, unlocking it just as her cell phone starts ringing, the singer going on about a beautiful disaster and wanting to hold on through the tears and the laughter. Felicity's cheeks burn because she knows he can probably hear the ringtone, and she lunges for the door.

She opens the door to find Oliver with his phone to his ear, his mouth slowly turning up at the corners as his eyes drink her in with a level of observance that no one would attribute to him. Felicity smiles back until she realizes he's probably quietly laughing at her appearance. Today was _not_ the day to wear her Cheshire Cat pajamas, the shirt proclaiming, "We're all mad here," with the Cat himself sitting in the tree above. And she honestly doesn't want to think about what her hair looks like right now.

Ending the obviously useless call, Oliver greets her with a simple, "Hey." That smile makes her aware of three things, the first two being that he's unfairly attractive and that he should probably be smiling at a model—or even Laurel—like that. The second is that her fangs are partially elongated and she's going to need blood before she can form a coherent thought.

"Kitchen now," she declares, skipping all formality, "then business." He chuckles at her, but doesn't argue; they've done this enough now that he understands she's not a morning person. (Or a day person, really—she wasn't kidding about direct sunlight melting off her skin.) He's even caught her on the days when he _hasn't_ awoken her from a sound sleep, and Felicity knows she's been a little snippy with him, even then.

It still stuns her a little that she's been so involved in their little crusade for a few weeks. After the setup of the computer system, he had her manufacture a few bugs that she delivered during his I'm-going-to-jail party because he was on house arrest. Then both he and Diggle had come by to find the Royal Flush Gang, followed by two incidents that had involved the mention of a woman named Helena (which always caused Diggle to roll his eyes).

Once she reaches the refrigerator, Felicity pulls out the silver thermos full of blood (the bags are in one of the drawers, but this way means fewer questions). Then she grabs a mug out of her cabinet, filling it. After taking a long, healthy drink, her fangs start to retract almost immediately. "What can I do for you, Oliver?" she asks as she turns back around, only to find he isn't there.

Eyebrows narrowing together in confusion, she follows the soft sound of footsteps on the stairs. Suspicious now, Felicity meets him at the bottom of the stairs with something under his arm, but it's too far away for him to see. "What are you doing?" She frowns. "Not that I don't like you or anything, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't snoop around my house. I would have thought I didn't have to tell you that."

With his free hand, he ushers her back to the island in her kitchen. "I wasn't snooping," the snoop answers, but he doesn't offer any further explanation for his actions. Instead, he drops a black rod on her bar as he stands next to her. (He's both too close for comfort and too far away at the same time, which creates quite a paradox for her blood-deprived brain.) She squints at it for a moment to try and determine what the hell it is, but then Oliver pulls something away from the pocket on his plaid shirt, offering it to her. It takes Felicity a moment to realize they're her glasses, and she melts a little on the inside. "I need you to tell me what you can about that, please."

Felicity doesn't understand why he's dropping as few words as possible; that makes her uncomfortable because she doesn't know what's going on in his head. Not to mention, he seems to be studying her—and her mug—a little too intently for her comfort. When she situates her glasses on her face, she's no less mystified. "It's an arrow," she answers blankly, "and it's black." She blinks at him owlishly for a moment. "Archery is _your_ thing, not mine—you probably know more about this than I do." A thought comes back to her. "This is the copycat archer's arrow, isn't it?"

The sound of his breathy laugh is absolutely lovely, and the thought makes Felicity wonder when she started sounding like a lovestruck fool. (Not that she's in love with him, of course; it's just an expression.) Suddenly a laptop slides across the bar in front of her, and it takes her a moment to recognize the skin on the lid, of Flynn Rider standing next to a tree covered with all of his wanted posters. "It is," Oliver affirms. "I was hoping you could tell me where they were made. It's the only way I have to track him."

She drops down onto one of the barstools, powering up her laptop before picking up the arrow. "It looks like the composite in the shaft is patented." Tilting to look up at the man standing beside her, Felicity thinks of another important question. "My friend Barry is kind of obsessed with studying the Vigilante, and he says you use a carbon shaft." After Oliver confirms the fact with a nod and a slight lift of his mouth, she continues, "He also says that, if you used an aluminum-carbon composite, you'd penetrate better."

By the time she realizes that could be construed as an innuendo, it's already out of her mouth and there's nothing Felicity can do to stop it. At first, Oliver didn't seem to mind her somewhat inappropriate babbling, but now he has a tendency to shift uncomfortably and promptly change the subject whenever her words come out completely wrong. It usually makes things awkward between them for a few minutes, and with no Diggle there to smooth things over, she's not looking forward to the rest of his visit.

So, of course, it completely throws her when he replies in a flat tone, "I've never had any problem penetrating before, Felicity."

Felicity can't help it; she actually has to look at him after _that_ line. His expression is either stoic or he has the world's best poker face, meeting her eyes with an innocence she'd believe if not for the slight twinkle in his eyes. If she didn't know better, she'd think he was flirting with her, but Oliver doesn't flirt. And, if he did, it would be a waste of time and effort to do so with her. The blonde is eternally unavailable to humans, and she doesn't hold out much hope for vampires, either. Trying to find the right guy was hard enough when she was human and _didn't_ have to search within a limited number of undead prospects.

That, and her last boyfriend left her like this. Once bitten, twice shy and all that.

She opens her mouth to ask just as her computer starts up, and Felicity takes it as a sign to keep her mouth shut, just this once. After bringing up the patent database and typing it in, she's able to tell him, "It looks like it's registered to a company called Sagittarius." She has no idea why she's telling Oliver this; he's leaning over her shoulder again, his breath fanning against her cheek. The blonde vampire has _not_ had enough blood for this, and she wonders if he just _likes_ inviting danger into his life. Again her fangs start to descend, and she clamps down on her jaw to prevent them from going too far. While the teeth might be first, the hunger is second and _that's_ what she's trying to avoid.

"Like the astrology sign?" Oliver asks, confused by the name and oblivious to her dilemma. One of these days, Felicity is going to stop being astonished by the random knowledge that comes out of his mouth. How the hell Oliver Queen—billionaire, vigilante, and former castaway—knows that is beyond her.

Trying to fight her smile, Felicity answers, "Exactly like. Technically, it's Latin for 'the archer.'" She pulls up a new window to search for more on the company, and finally, she's able to write down a location on a pink sticky note with the pad and pen sitting on the counter. Without looking back, she slaps the address against his chest. "That should be your location." She reaches for her mug, deciding that she needs more blood before his close proximity awakens the monster. The last time that happened, it wasn't pretty, and she does _not_ want a repeat with a close friend.

She places the mug back on the counter as she rises, expecting to show Oliver out and try to sleep between intervals of annoying woodpeckers. Instead, he surprises her by leaning in to press his lips to her temple. Honestly, Felicity keeps forgetting this became a thing with them because it's so surreal. The first time, it was probably part of an act because it was in front of Laurel, but he just keeps doing it. "You're remarkable, Felicity," he says, his tone colored by a tone she doesn't know how to read (yet; she's getting better with Oliver's tones).

Confused by the sudden change in his voice, she answers, "Well, thank you for remarking on it, Oliver." She already feels like an idiot afterward, but something is going on here that Felicity can't see yet. And, like kangaroos and VIKI, she absolutely _hates_ mysteries.

Oliver takes a few steps toward the door before turning back around to face her with a knowing look that scares the hell out of her. "I don't know where you get your supply," he starts slowly, "but I draw blood for transfusions every week—just in case anything happens. If you ever run out, it's in the bottom drawer of the toolbox at base."

By the time the weight of realization drops into her stomach, he's already turned back to the front door as though this is the most natural conversation in the world. "You know," she breathes in a small voice. Felicity can't leave this hanging between them. "Wait," she calls out, louder, and it pulls Oliver's attention back to her. " _How_ do you know? Are you telling me you figured this out?"

"You figured out that I'm the Vigilante," he reminds her.

Felicity dismisses it by waving a hand. "Yeah, but that was a plausible, rational conclusion," she points out. "And I have some abilities that you don't. This is _not_ a plausible, rational conclusion, Oliver." Then it dawns on her that all of the touches before—even the kiss to her temple—occurred after he knew. He _knew_ , but he let himself get close to her anyway. _No one_ does that—not even Barry.

The way he hesitates, the way he licks his lip makes Felicity think he's going to talk about something from the past five years. "On the island," Oliver explains carefully, "there were things that happened—things that I saw—that just… defy explanation." His mouth turns into a firm line, and the blonde vampire nods once, understanding that he can't say more on the subject.

"You drink too much of that for it to be juice," he declares suddenly, working through his reasoning with a wary tone. "You don't seem to mind being touched, but you don't want people close to you. When Digg cut his arm a few weeks ago, you nearly threw yourself across the room to get away from him. Your eye teeth are a little too large, and you try not to show them when you smile. You can see better in the dark than you should be able to." He smiles, but the gesture seems unconscious. "And then you make jokes at your own expense, alluding to your situation."

He shifts his feet, saying to the wall more than to her, "I also looked into you before I decided to ask you for help." He quickly adds, "I did the same thing for Diggle—I don't like unknown quantities." His head tilts to the side. "You graduated from MIT, but you work at a small electronics store, doing a job that you're overqualified for. But you had a better job before, in Cambridge, at a large software development firm, and you left suddenly for no reason." Felicity's stomach drops; already she knows where this is going, and she'd really like for this train of thought to throw on the brakes. It doesn't. "And that's when I found the police report for an unsolved murder case. When I put those together—"

She cuts him off, waving her hands wildly. "I know what you must be thinking right now," Felicity starts, and the air of desperation to her tone makes her furious with herself. The tears welling in her eyes only make it worse, and she has to close her eyes because she does _not_ want to see his expression. "And God knows I probably deserve every word of it. But before you say anything, I want you to know that it was an accident. It's the only time I've ever slipped. I _swear_ to you, Oliver, that there isn't a day that goes by that I don't _hate_ myself for it. I promise you that I never meant to hurt—"

He cuts her off with a quiet, "Hey." She stops immediately because, if he's speaking, that means he isn't walking away. Yet. He squeezes her arm, just above her elbow, and only then does Felicity dare to open her eyes. When she does, it's to find Oliver studying her with sympathy, instead of the disgust she expected. "I know," he assures her. He studies her for a long moment, a smile starting to form. "I know you better than that, Felicity."

With a feeling of being overwhelmed, she shakes her head wildly. "This is so weird—I've never had to talk to anyone about this before," she comments. Then she pokes him in the chest. "You should _not_ be okay with this, Oliver. I'm dangerous. I'm scary." He chuckles, but she doesn't find his good humor contagious at the moment. "I'm poisonous, too, so I'd recommend not laughing at me if you'd like to remain un-paralyzed."

 _That_ does the trick, removing all but an amused smile from his face. "You're poisonous?" he asks.

"Only if I bite and inject you," Felicity assures him. "But you should be scared—or at least respectfully cautious. Barry isn't scared, either, but he doesn't linger in my personal space." She gives him a pointed glance, but he seems to ignore it. "You _do_ , but I kind of like it, actually. It makes me feel human again. But my point is that it's not good for your health."

Oliver takes something far different out of her speech than what she intends. "Barry knows?"

She rolls her eyes. "Barry knew me…" Felicity lets the sentence trail off; saying _when I was human_ makes her feel like some sort of demon, and _before I was a vampire_ makes the situation feel a little too real. Finally she settles on, "Before." Then she frowns. "But I meant what I said before—you're playing with fire, Oliver. From experience, it sucks when you get burned." She hesitates. "Pun intended." Something about his expression makes Felicity think that, if he were the kind of person to do so, he'd be rolling his eyes.

"I've been burned before, Felicity," he answers before kissing her temple again. "It wasn't that bad."

* * *

Before the vehicles even park, Felicity can smell them outside, dropping her book on the coffee table in confusion. It's just after five in the morning; Oliver and John typically visit her during the day, but it _is_ a Saturday—albeit very early in one. (Apparently vigilantes work weekends, which is news to her.) With a huff, she lifts herself off the sofa, padding across in her bare feet to the front door. Just as she's about to swing it open, she notices that Oliver's smell is a little funny—not _bad_ , just different. It's not uncommon; when he came out of Verdant as it burned down a few weeks ago, he smelled like a briquette. God only knows what he's gotten himself into this time.

As she throws open the door, she notices that Oliver is still dressed in his Vigilante gear, and Felicity hasn't seen him decked out in full gear since he "rescued" her in that alley. He's been in the leathers a few times, sure, but _never_ with the bow in his hand, the quiver at his back, and the mask over his eyes.

And he's certainly _never_ entered through the front door in his gear.

Before she can snap at him for parking in the front where the neighbors can see him, she notices it. His gait is wrong, he's moving too slow, and he's actually _slouching_. Instead of yelling at him, Felicity rushes out across the grass to throw an arm over her shoulder, helping him toward the door. (She's long since given up on keeping distance from him; Oliver blatantly ignores her personal space on a regular basis, despite her warnings.) He stumbles a few times along the way—nearly taking her down with him on one occasion—before they make it in.

Ignoring the open door, she somehow manages to help him onto the couch. "What the hell happened to you?" Felicity demands. Without asking for permission, she sweeps his hood back, pulling the mask off and throwing it in the general direction of the coffee table. He's covered in perspiration that's smearing the additional grease paint around his eyes, and if she didn't know better, she'd think he was unconscious. Concerned now, she places a hand to his cheek to check for fever, but then she remembers that she wouldn't be able to tell anyway. Her loss of ability to regulate her body temperature is a bitch sometimes.

"I'm fine," Oliver assures her in a voice that belies the opposite. Felicity huffs, about to argue, but the words stop cold as he covers her hand with his own, leaning into her touch. Oh, boy, she's in trouble. "I'm _fine_ , Felicity," he insists, as if saying it again will make her believe it.

Because he's obviously not up to an interrogation and she can smell John at the door, she walks away from him, going back to the bodyguard. A black duffel bag sits at his feet and she studies it before deciding she doesn't care. Instead, she rushes to lock up behind her boys, saying, "I'll rephrase. What the hell happened to him, John?"

He doesn't look any happier about it than she feels. "After Thea wrecked her car, our boy has been hitting Vertigo dealers pretty hard," he answers slowly. "He got one of them to set up a meeting with a Count—the guy manufacturing the stuff." He glances over to Oliver before turning back to Felicity. "The Count got the jump on him, dosed him with some of the stuff. I don't even know how he managed to drive the bike here. I guess I could have taken him home, but you were closer." John frowns. "I don't think we should leave him alone—he doesn't look good."

Felicity pats his arm. "I'll watch over him tonight," she insists. Because he already looks like he's going to argue, she adds, "I was already going to be up—I have my days and nights reversed, remember? And, besides, you watch over him most nights, anyway. It's the least I could do, John."

"Could you try not to talk about me like I'm not here?" Oliver cuts in, his voice weak. "It's a light overdose. I'll be fine on my own." When they ignore him, he continues, "I'm just high—I spent most of my college years like this." Coming from anyone else, Felicity would think it was a joke but a) Oliver doesn't joke and b) she thinks he might actually be telling the truth.

Still, that doesn't mean she's going to listen to him. "You _do_ realize that your argument was invalid the moment you said, 'light overdose,' right?" she snaps at him. "If you even _attempt_ to leave this house tonight, I'm going to tie you to the bed." Felicity winces immediately after the words are spoken, followed by a stream of obscenities in her head. "My brain thinks of the absolute _worst_ way to say things."

"If it makes you feel any better," John starts with a conspiratorial smile, and Felicity is sorely tempted to murder him, "it's probably not the first time a woman has said that to him." The sad part about it is that it's probably true; she's heard the stories of Oliver's misspent youth, and she honestly thinks nothing would surprise her anymore.

"It's not," Oliver interjects helpfully from the couch.

Felicity decides to ignore him because he looks blitzed out of his mind at the moment. "Go home, John," she insists with a shooing motion. "I can take care of him on my own. You just go see Carly, check in on your nephew. I can take care of him." He raises an eyebrow in doubt. "I even promise not to bite," she teases, smiling wide enough to flash him her fangs. She figures he was the first one Oliver told about her whole I-vant-to-suck-your-blood thing after he talked to her.

"I've heard that one before, too," Oliver calls out.

John actually smiles at that, shaking his head. "I gathered up his street clothes after things went south," he tells her, nudging the duffel with his foot. "Didn't figure you wanted the Vigilante walking around your place during the day." Then he holds out a syringe. "Found this next to Oliver—it's probably Vertigo. If you know someone who can run that, it would probably help our case." Felicity decides she'll call Barry in a few hours. He offers her a nod and a pat on the arm before unlocking the door. "See you soon, Felicity."

She wishes him a good morning before turning back to Oliver. Whatever look crosses her face, it causes him to frown. "It's almost morning—you're probably tired," he notes. "I'll stay here."

"No, you won't," Felicity insists, making a motion with her hand. "I'm taking you to bed." She winces, glad he leaves that one alone. "Not in the fun way. My bedroom is upstairs, and I sleep too deeply to hear you if you need anything. This way, I'll know." He rises, albeit a little awkwardly, and she throws Oliver's arm back over her shoulder again. "Besides, it would be nice if _someone_ fell asleep in my bed on occasion."

"You don't have a spare bedroom up here?" he asks, and, for the first time, Felicity thinks he might sound a little worried. The idea is almost laughable; she doubts Oliver has ever had reason to be concerned about being in a woman's bed. Maybe good sense is finally starting to kick in and he's realizing that she's a vampire. Part of that thought makes her sad, and she wonders why.

Felicity nods, stumbling over a stair as Oliver nearly topples them both. "I do," she answers, "but I never furnished it. If you're going to make a habit of this, we'll have to put a bed in it. For the time being, we can both take my bed." When he doesn't respond immediately, she adds, "Despite the whole vampire thing, I don't actually bite, Oliver."

He moves to kiss her cheek, but between the walking motion and his probably blurred vision, he hits a little too close to the corner of her mouth for Felicity's comfort. "Thank you, Felicity."

She turns her head away as they reach the top of the stairs, depositing him on her bed. It's a little surreal, actually—Oliver Queen in his vigilante gear, on _her_ bed. Then she maneuvers the stairs again, returning to his room with the bag. "John said your street clothes are here," Felicity informs him. "You can change in here." Then she moves over to her dresser, pulling out the first pair of pajamas she finds.

The lawn gnome pants, while a little odd, are perfectly acceptable, so she changes into them in the bathroom, along with the blue tank top. By the time she returns to her bedroom, Oliver is in a pair of sweatpants—she did _not_ know he owned something so… _peasant-y_ —and he's stripping out of his shirt, exposing a heartbreaking amount of scars down his back and an absolutely lovely amount of muscle. Against her better judgment, Felicity stares—maybe even ogles a little. Especially that tattoo on the top of his shoulder.

She expects him to put on another shirt, but he doesn't, turning back to her and flashing a few more scars—and two more tattoos. For someone who proclaimed himself high, Oliver looks surprisingly sober as he studies her. "Aren't you cold?" he asks suddenly, nodding to the fair amount of skin exposed by the tank top.

Felicity ignores him, circling around the bed to her side. "I'm kind of like a reptile—I can't regulate my body temperature anymore." She shrugs. "You know, I'm dead-ish and all that. So _my_ temperature is ambient temperature. At least I don't get chills anymore, but a really warm day could kill me—not that I'm going to be out in the sun to enjoy it." As she nestles herself under the comforter and places her glasses on the nightstand, she continues, "I also have this weird tendency to seek out warm things. Had to get rid of my space heater because I nearly burned myself."

Oliver chuckles from the other side of the bed, and, though she's facing away from him, her hand is already seeking him out. It lands on his for a moment, but then he threads his fingers through hers before he starts edging closer. By the time he stops moving, Felicity's back is pressed against his chest and his arm is draped across her middle, his hand over hers with his fingers still laced with hers. "I wouldn't mind keeping you warm," he decides in a quiet voice.

"That's what you say _now_ ," Felicity answers conversationally, deciding it's the only way to stop freaking out about this experience. After all, Oliver is mostly high and he probably won't remember this when he wakes up later tonight. "I have a tendency to tangle up in people."

As though he does this every night of his life, Oliver pulls the elastic out of her hair with his other hand. She can feel his chest fall and rise at her back, and it's kind of peaceful. "I think it's the other way around," he murmurs, mostly to himself. Before she has the chance to decipher that, he states louder, "Thank you for letting me stay here."

Felicity smiles sleepily before answering truthfully, "Right now, I wouldn't dream of anything else."

* * *

Making a mental note to thank Oliver for pulling her out of the Tech Village dungeon, Felicity smiles as she leaves for lunch on her third day of work at Queen Consolidated. Apparently Mr. Steele, the CEO, had wanted to hire an employee to take care of late shift duties, and working from five to two in the IT department by herself _definitely_ works better for her schedule. Now, at least, she has most of the night free to enjoy. Not to mention that she can go out to eat lunch because most of the restaurants are still open. Maybe things are starting to look up.

Of course that thought is blindsided when she catches the smell of blood on the air. It hits her like a battering ram, so strong and potent that she doesn't catch the human's subtle scent until after her fangs are protruding out of her mouth. Whoever it is, they're as good as dead with _that_ much blood on the air; if she can't hear them yet, they have to be several yards away, and that means a _lot_ of blood loss. Taking a few steps forward, she finally manages to discern the identifiers, and the haze of thirst fades away as panic sets in.

It's Oliver.

Ignoring the thirst clawing at her stomach, she breaks out in a run, using her sense of smell to guide her. At the same time, she pulls out her cell phone, speed dialing John. He'll know what's going on. He _should_ know what's going on, anyway. He watches out for Oliver on school nights, but the vigilante has become her charge on weekends, it seems; she came home to find him asleep on the guest bedroom floor so many times that she outfitted the room with a bed.

Diggle seems to understand her urgency when he answers. "Felicity, is something wrong?" John asks carefully. "You're at QC, right?"

"Yes to both of the above," she answers, her voice coming out an octave higher than normal. "I haven't found him yet, but I know Oliver is bleeding." Felicity swallows some of her emotion so that she can speak, and it burns her raw throat. Damn it, she's going to need a lot of blood to make it through this one. "John, it's bad. If you have any medical supplies, get them out. I'll get him to you somehow."

Finally she can see a figure slumped against the wall, and she says to Diggle, "Hold on, I think I've got him." She swallows again, trying to coat her dry mouth. "Oliver?" she whispers, and the blood smell is so strong that her hand starts to shake as she covers her mouth and nose. For a painfully long moment, he doesn't move, but then finally he shifts in place, just enough for Felicity to see that his hand is over his heart, and both the jacket and his glove are saturated with blood. Her throat tightens up. "Oh my God," she somehow manages to breathe around it. "Make that _all_ the medical supplies, John," she corrects before she hangs up.

Somehow he manages to rise to his feet, stumbling with gritted teeth. "Base," he manages to demand between pained breaths. "No hospital." He studies her for a moment, probably noting the way her hand is clamped over her mouth. "Can you drive me?"

Felicity knows what he's _really_ asking: Can she handle this? Felicity isn't sure, but she knows she doesn't have a choice. "If you can walk to the car, I can get you to the lair," she promises. "I'm either going to drain you dry or throw up—or both—if I get any closer." Even now, the perspiration makes her hair slick and she has never hated her vampiric biology more.

If Oliver takes offense, he doesn't say it, instead following her back to the car. Somehow he manages to heave himself into the backseat of her Mini. She doesn't look back, instead focusing on making the journey between the parking garage and the lair. Because of that, she's surprised to hear his voice an octave higher as he states, "Walter." A look through the rearview mirror informs Felicity that he's on the phone, which explains why he's using what she thinks of as his Fake Oliver voice. "I'm sorry to bother you this late, but I have a disaster at the club right now. I can't get the security and the cameras and the cash registers working, and I wondered if I could borrow Felicity for the rest of her shift."

The gesture makes her melt a little on the inside. He doesn't try to tell her to go back to work or insist that he'll be fine; instead, Oliver knows that she'll want to be there for this tonight. "I appreciate it, Walter," he continues. There's a long pause before he answers the next time. "I can't think of anyone else I'd call in a crisis," he states in an agreeing tone, just before saying goodbyes and hanging up.

"You didn't call me about this, Oliver," she chides him a little. "I'd like to know if you're bleed—"

He cuts her off. "I was trying to get to my phone when you found me," he explains in a quiet voice. She waits for him to say more, but when she turns back to look at him, Oliver is unconscious, slumped against the side of the car. Something stings in her eyes as she turns her attention back to the road, and she forces it down. The _last_ thing she needs in this mix of bleeding and fangs rubbing against her lips is a good crying jag.

When she finally gets to the lair, Diggle is standing outside of Verdant with a grim expression. It only gets darker when Felicity steps out of the car; he must see something in her expression that declares just how bad it is. "It's not good, John," she warns him quietly as she opens the door. "He's unconscious and I know I can't carry him. Not just because of the whole size issue here, either. I'm already in the shakes and I think I might actually throw up at some point. Which is weird because I've had plenty of bl—"

"Felicity, he's going to be fine," John assures her. Though he means it to be comforting, Felicity can't see _how_ ; there's no way for him to know that. He rests a hand on a metal gurney next to him. "If you can help me get him onto the gurney, I can take it from there."

It's an awkward tangle of limbs trying to move him, but somehow they manage to get Oliver onto the gurney and into the building. As soon as they do, though, Felicity finds herself heaving into a trash can in the basement. As she does so, she can't help but wonder why _she_ had to be the weird vampire who gets sick every time her body gears up for a live feed. Cooper didn't have this problem. What the hell is she doing wrong? Then she rolls her eyes. Leave it to her to suck at being a vampire.

(Pun not intended. Felicity doesn't appreciate her thoughts unconsciously making vampire puns.)

"I'm going to need some help over here," Diggle notes as soon as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The blood there would be unnerving to anyone else, but she just ignores it, turning back to the gurney. At some point in the five minutes she tossed her cookies, he managed to pull the green jacket away from Oliver's torso and start inspecting the wound over his heart. Or, what Felicity _thinks_ is a wound. It could be a fountain of blood, based on what it looks like.

Knowing there's nothing else to do, Felicity seizes a pair of latex gloves from the table. As she pulls them on, she asks, "Do you have a mask of some sort? Because I'm going to need one." He points to a box on the table, and she pulls one out of it, fixing it on her face. Then she winces as her canines rub against the outside of her lip; they're going to make a sores if she can't retract them soon. That's yet another thing she never picked up from Cooper.

The two of them somehow manage to patch the wound together, mostly because of John. Felicity occasionally hands him supplies, mostly while facing the other way and trying not to have another out-of-stomach experience. "I'd say, 'good job, team,' but I think you did most of the work, John," she notes idly, talking about something just to keep from thinking about Oliver and his whole possible-dying situation. (Not to mention her own thirst, which still hasn't gone away.) "I just kept from liquidating my assets— _again_." As he turns to throw something in the trash can, Felicity adds, "You probably don't want to look in there—it's not pretty."

John's eyebrows knit together as he does precisely the opposite of her suggestion. "Felicity," he says slowly, "this looks like blood. And a _lot_ of it." After a moment, he looks up at her. "Is something wrong?"

Felicity looks down at the trash, and, sure enough, the blood is starting to clot, identifying it easily. "The anticoagulants are the first to break down," she explains with a shrug, after pulling off the face mask. "I don't really know why it happens, but it does." When he studies her blankly for a moment longer, a nauseous feeling comes back to her stomach that has _nothing_ to do with singing lunch. "Oh, God," she realizes in a quiet voice. "He didn't tell you."

The look she earns in return is enough to make her think it's the right conclusion. "I'm sorry, John," she blurts after a long breath. "Oliver figured it out a few weeks ago, and I thought he'd tell you. If I thought he'd keep it to himself, _I_ would have said something. You deserve to know. It's not like Oliver to—"

"Keep secrets?" Diggle finishes with a raised eyebrow. They both laugh before he leans on the computer desk with a heavy sigh. "I don't know if you've noticed or not, but Oliver…" He trails off, and Felicity immediately tenses; it's never good when John Diggle is at a loss for words. "He's… _protective_ when it comes to you, Felicity. He's careful when he talks about you—even with me. So if he knows something about you, he's not going to tell anyone. Not even me."

Felicity takes a deep breath. "I don't know how the hell he figured it out," she tells him. "No one _ever_ figures it out. It doesn't even make sense to _me_ —and it's _my_ life." She licks her lip, wincing at the sting in the tender spots where her fangs rubbed. That's going to be a pain to cover up. "I'm a vampire—and no jokes, please. I think I've heard them all from Barry."

He blinks at her twice, the proper, rational response to the fact. When he chuckles, her expression doesn't change, and he slowly sobers. "What's the punch line?" he asks her dryly.

After dropping down in the desk chair, she swivels it across to the gurney, to sit by Oliver. "Don't know," Felicity responds as she turns back to John. "I've been waiting to hear it for the last three years." Absently, she laces her fingers through Oliver's, only now noticing the calluses on his fingers. If anyone cared to notice, the evidence that he isn't just a partying billionaire is in plain sight. Like most things, someone only has to look.

She frowns at herself; usually the philosophical mood doesn't hit her until _after_ the muscle aches.

Licking at her enlarged teeth again (they're awkward in her mouth and sore against her lips), Felicity studies Diggle for a long moment. She doesn't know what he sees in her expression, but she can see the first flickers of doubt in his expression. Finally he decides to believe it, as he asks her, "Do you actually bite people?"

"No," she insists in a firm tone. "Bad things happen when vampires feed from humans, John. Usually that means nasty scars, arterial bleeding, and, in certain instances, waking up to find your vampire boyfriend gone and a burn in your throat." He raises an eyebrow and she frowns in surprise at herself. "Huh, I thought I was over that. Either that or I'm getting irritable again. It's one of the symptoms of my little withdrawal thing." Before he can answer, Felicity groans as her left calf seizes up. "And _there_ are the cramps—I was wondering when that would happen." She stretches her leg, extending all of her muscles to ease the ache. It doesn't work as well as she'd hoped.

Continuing her earlier train of thought, she continues, "Actually, I'd like to rephrase that. Bad things happen when vampires _mix_ with humans." She sighs, absently drawing patterns on the back of Oliver's hand with her thumb. "I usually try to stay away, but it's tough being the only vampire in Starling City."

"For what it's worth," John starts in a low voice, "I don't think Oliver ever had any intention of letting you go, Felicity." He chuckles at something she doesn't quite understand. "I don't know what he was like the first time you met him, but when he came home, Oliver was…" He shakes his head, as if he isn't sure how to finish that sentence. "He wasn't like the man we both know today. Oliver was angry, wouldn't listen to reason." Shaking his head again, he continues, "I followed him when he went after Adam Hunt, kept him from getting his head blown off. Never really saw him smile, though, until that night we went to see you about Deadshot's laptop. You provide a lot more to this team than just technical support, Felicity—whether or not you know it." He laughs once more. "And you shouldn't let Oliver forget it."

Felicity smiles. "I'll try not to, John."

"I wouldn't anyway," a third voice adds, raspy with disuse and fatigue. The blonde vampire is so relieved to hear his voice that she forgets to breathe for a moment, clenching his hand in relief. He returns the gesture before his head lolls over to look at her, blue eyes opening slowly. After studying her for a long, very awake moment, he asks her, "Are you all right?"

She can't help but scoff at that. "You were shot, bled all over my car, and nearly _died_ , Oliver." She ignores the way her voice cracks on the word; reading into that might be her undoing. "I think I should be asking _you_ if you're all right," Felicity corrects. "So, more importantly, are _you_ okay?"

He gives her one of those looks, the ones he throws her when normal people would roll their eyes. "I survived again," Oliver says instead, slowly starting to lift himself into a standing position. Felicity rushes to help him up, frowning when he winces as he jars his injured shoulder. Maybe she hovers a little bit over him, but it's only because he practically died. And, maybe with enough repetition, she can convince herself of that. "Cool."

With a frown, he looks down at the wound on his shoulder, attempting to study it. "How are we going to explain this one, Digg?" he asks the other man with a sense of amusement, as though this is a question that needs to be answered often—probably more often than Felicity would like to know about.

It surprises her that John is quick to answer. "How about a hickey gone wrong?" he offers with a smile, earning himself a look from Oliver in return.

Scoffing, Felicity blurts, "Maybe if you made out with a vampire." Both men turn instantly to her, and she winces at the looks they throw her. "Which was _not_ an offer. For the record, I have _never_ left a mark like that on a human. Mainly because I've never had sex with a human since I've been a vampire. But that looks a _lot_ like some of the marks that Cooper left when he—" Suddenly her mind catches up to her words. "And you do not need to know how that sentence supposed to end."

Oliver manages a smile as he pulls on the gray hoodie draped over the back of her chair. "Diggle," he starts with a groan. "Will you pull the car around, please? I need to get home before my mother suspects anything more."

Diggle flashes them a knowing look, as though he suspects Oliver is wanting to talk to Felicity alone for some reason. Why that would be, she doesn't know, but she also knows that Diggle is rarely wrong about anything. Even though he knows that, he still turns to Felicity. "You sure you're all right, Felicity?" he asks slowly. "You didn't look good when we brought him in—even threw up."

She nods once, appreciates the older man's concern because she knows she needs someone to be a little leary of her. "I'm fine, John," Felicity assures him. "I told you, it's just a normal response—it's not unusual." He flashes her a look, but, even as he does so, he also turns for the door, heading up the stairs with a shake of his head.

After the door shuts, Oliver immediately turns to her with a curious expression on his face, studying her with way too much intensity. In slow, stilted movements, he lifts a hand to cup Felicity's cheek, his thumb carefully brushing along the edge of the protruding canine on the left side of her mouth. She's too afraid to move, knowing that one brisk movement could cause problems for both of them. "You've never showed me these before," he breathes quietly, as though he's afraid of breaking the spell by speaking at a normal volume.

When she flexes her jaw, Oliver moves his hand away. "I didn't want to show you them now," Felicity admits slowly. "I… can't control it. Sometimes they extend and I can't get them to retract. It's kind of a pain, actually. They rub sores against my lip and—"

"And they're retracted," he notes, that curious tone in his voice again.

Felicity has to check for herself to be sure, licking a line across her teeth. And, sure enough, they are. "I have no idea how I did that," she admits slowly. "I've never been able to do that before." Now that she has, though, she finds it easy to retract and extend again, when she tests them. Apparently she _does_ have control over it, but it's all a matter of finding it. That thought gives her a surprising amount of hope.

Oliver studies her for a moment longer before finally stating, "Thank you." When her eyebrows knit together in confusion, he elaborates, "For bringing me back to the base after this. It must have been difficult for you to stay around all that blood. Thank you for doing it." He tilts his head to the side. "Even though it made you sick."

Little does he know it was excruciating. Still, it was worth the burn in her throat to watch him wake up again. "I'm just glad to see you alive," she answers honestly. To his unasked question, she responds, "I have a thing—an adrenaline response, Barry thinks. It's weird, but my hands shake and I break out into a cold sweat any time I'm around a lot of blood. Sometimes I even yodel groceries—like Diggle told you about."

"And you're okay now?" he confirms, and, though it's a question, there isn't much inflection to it. Oliver has made the fact clear over and over again: he trusts her—even when he shouldn't, when trusting her would be a mistake. Like right now, for instance; because, while Felicity would never want to hurt him, sometimes she can't control it.

Cambridge should have taught him that.

"I'm okay," she answers after a long moment, even as his hand drops to her shoulder. "For now, anyway. I don't know how long it will last—or why I'm not shaking anymore. Not that I'm complaining. I don't like being the monster that goes bump in the night, but I also know that bad things happen to the humans around me." Felicity frowns, shaking her head. "I'm not safe, Oliver."

"Maybe not," he agrees slowly, "but I haven't been safe in a very long time, Felicity." He takes a deep breath, studying her for a long moment. Then, in his very laconic way, he states, "I want you to come on board and be a full part of this team." Surely he knows she'll say no, but yet he seems to be asking her anyway.

Except, she decides as Diggle walks back in, it really isn't a request. Oliver doesn't wait for a response, ushering Felicity up the stairs with him. It's almost agonizing as she realizes that the stitches in his wound are tearing slightly, but she manages to keep her wits about her, even as the beast begs to be let out of her cage. But, this time, she won't let it; it's too important that he stay safe, especially after all of this. He lets her go with a kiss to her temple and a promise: "I'll see you tomorrow night."

It stirs something awake in her that she long thought was dead, and it confirms something Felicity has been thinking since the very first time she met him. Oliver Queen is trouble wrapped up in a pretty package—but, then again, Felicity is a little troublesome, too. The warning bells in her head beg her to walk away before this ends badly, but another thought—one more powerful—makes her think that this could be worth it.

Because maybe, just maybe, they might be able to make a little mischief together.

* * *

 _Playlist:_

 _"Beautiful Disaster" - Kelly Clarkson (also Felicity's ringtone for Oliver)_  
 _"Ghost" - Darling Parade_  
 _"Frankenstein" - Stitched Up Heart_  
 _"Living Dangerously" - Fools for Rowan_  
 _"Don't Feel Right" - The Dirty Youth_  
 _"Love Isn't Always Fair" - Black Veil Brides_  
 _"This is Gonna Hurt" - Sixx:A.M._  
 _"All Together" - Stars in Stereo_  
 _"Bird Without Wings" - The Material_  
 _"The Middle" - Jimmy Eat World_


End file.
